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OLD WINE 
IN NEW BOTTLES 



FOR < ILD AND NEW FRIENDS. 



BY 



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BRINTON \\. WOODWARD. 



"Old Wood to Burn! Old Wine to Drink! 
Old Friends to Trust! Old Authors to Read! 




LAWRENCE, Kansas: 

JOURNAL PUBLISHING CO 

1S90. 



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Copyright by 
B. W. WOODWARD. 
1890. 



TO 

"THE OLD AND NEW CLUB," 

OF LAWRENCE, 

AT WHOSE INSTANCE MANY 01 THESE PAPERS WERE FIRST WRITTEN 

THIS VOLUME IS 1 RATERNALLY DEDICATED. 



INTRODUCTORY. 



Once in a while comes a superior season wherein 
the vintage is again a rich one: once in a great while 
a book is projected into the world, full of grand, new, 
inspiring thoughts. 

This book is not one of the few. It will simply find 
its place, if any, among the countless thousands that take 
some of the old ideas already in the world, and give 
them a form somewhat new. 

With the mass of us, ''there is nothing new under the 
sun." A thought comes to us, and we clothe it in words; 
but it had already been masquerading up and down 
through the world of literature for ages, — and before 
literature began it had been in the minds of men that 
built pyramids. (Somebody has, no doubt, made this 
identical observation before.) To the expression indeed, 
we may give some individuality of form: the idea has 
belonged to the race. 

In the dialectics of theology and metaphysics we thresh 
over the same old straw. In literature we fine, and 
decant, and bottle up the old wine. We pour over the 
old liquor into new packages, and put on labels of our 
own. Haply we filter away the lees and dregs which 
time had precipitated to the bottom. 

In setting down herein some observations on people 
and places, and pictures and books, — the writer is by no 
means presumptuous enough to imagine that he is adding 



vi INTRODUCTORY. 

an iota to the sum of human knowledge ! He is simply- 
taking some of the old wine already in stock, and decant- 
ing it into his own bottles. Of course he has made his 
own selection of vintages, — and takes occasion to express 
some opinion of the quality, or to call attention to the 
bouquet. It will now be entirely in order for any other 
vintner to declare that these particular wines are not 
esteemed at all by connoisseurs — and in fact have no 
commercial value: that they never were, worth bottling, 
or that the work has been so slovenly done they had 
been better left undisturbed. He shall be free to pro- 
nounce the wine very thin, indeed, — but not fairly, we 
trust, that the beverage is uncommon sour ! 

To come down to plain English — and the author 
would be particularly glad could he come up to good 
plain English — here are a number of essays, sketches, 
reminiscences of travel, — and a few bits of verse. All 
assorted together and fairly bound into a book. Take 
it for what it is worth ! The type is new, though the 
ideas may have no originality; — the paper is good, what- 
soever the style of expression. Go to ! what more would 
you ! 

It only remains to add that quite a goodly share of 
these papers were first published in the columns of the 
Lawrence Journal, under the pseudonym of The 
Lounger. Assumed in the first place to veil a person- 
ality, the sobriquet — albeit rather trite — is here retained, 
as serving to avoid the too frequent recurrence of the 
pronoun "of the first part." 



CONTENTS. 



INTRODUCTORY 



HONORE DE BALZAC . 
BALZAC AND THACKERAY 
A LITERARY FORECAST 
WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE 
•TT-LAND .... 

george fox and his journal 

the quaker wedding 

two schools of fiction . 

two travelers i)v such a cast 

the realist in art 

from realism to idealism 

the old knick 

Putnam's monthly . 

the golden age 

1855 to 1854, greeting .. 



PAGE. 

V 

I 
10 

16 
17 

26 

33 
42 

43 
60 

65 
73 
83 
89 

97 
98 



HoXORE DE BALZAC. 



It was no small or mean ambition that Balzac enter- 
tained when he started out to write the works that have 
made him famous — no slight task that he consciously set 
before him and to which he devoted his literary life. 

It was simply this, as he tells us in an introduction, 
written long afterward, — to compass the whole round of 
human experience — to traverse the whole range of human 
emotions, passions, motives — to trace every spring of 
action to its source — to map out the whole world of 
human life. 

This was all ! At least this was all he put before 
himself in the outset. Afterward, as he came to a com- 
pleter knowledge of his own mental and spiritual 
capacities, he added to the above a solution of the 
problem of human destiny — and became Metaphysician 
and Theosophist as well as Novelist Universal. 

But in the outset, as I have said, he proposed only to 
know and record the whole of human life. " La Comedie 
de la 'Vie Humaine" is the comprehensive title then 
assumed by him to include all his books. This title has 
a somewhat cynic sound, akin to that of the lines "All 
the world's a stage and all the men and women merely 
players" — players in a frivolous comedy — "The Comedy 
of Human Life," observed, say from behind the scenes, 
by some Master of the drama, some Shakespeare or 
Balzac, who knows every tone and trick and gesture of 



2 BE BALZAC. 

the actors and may put them all, in turn, with all their 
vaunted airs and graces, into a greater comedy of his own. 

Yet Balzac may have meant to use the word "comedie" 
in a broader sense — that of the Drama of Human Life. 
Take it in this sense and who shall say that the ambition 
is not one worthy of the greatest artist in letters that 
ever lived ! 

In some respects Balzac was fairly well equipped for Ins 
task. His observation of men and facts and places — as 
well those of the provinces as of Paris itself — was both 
minute and extensive, his knowledge comprehensive, his 
faith in himself boundless. Besides this he was master 
of a style which, viewed through the happy medium of 
Miss Wormeley's translations, we find eminently clear, 
direct and forcible. 

It is true that the ''whole of human life" in his view- 
appears to include only the society of his own country 
and his own time but, the man who can faithfully pict- 
ure the life of a single country and one age, has marched 
a long step toward the representation of all life, for 

"Human hearts remain the same,— the sorrow and the sin, 
The loves and hopes and fears of old are to our own akin." 

But it was not a broad comprehensive survey of the 
whole of that life in one view, and its reproduction in 
one book, that Balzac attempted. He was perfectly 
aware that the totality of life cannot be taken in % at one 
glance — its infinitely varying elements be synthetized 
into the personalities of one limited set of people — its 
thousand multifarious experiences be compressed in their 
record within the limits of one volume. 

History even would teach him that the conquerors of 
the world had proceeded by taking possession of its 
provinces and kingdoms one after another in due sue- 



BE BALZAC 3 

cession, until there were "no more left to conquer." He 
knew that the whole was the sum of all its parts — and 
the better way to take in a pie or a cake is to 
proceed a bite or a slice at a time. It is not wise to 
"do" all the galleries of the Louvre before breakfast. 
Better take " a day off" — and give the matter full justice ! 

So Balzac, in effect says to us : It is true that it is 
the geography of the whole world that I am going to 
give you — but behold, I have divided it into a set of 
dissected maps of the different countries. Now we will 
proceed, seriatim, to take each one apart and afterward 
reconstruct it — then, finally, when you have had the 
whole in turn, voilaf you have had the whole of human 
life — say in a detached series of some forty of my books! 

For example, here is the kingdom of Avarice — quite 
a large kingdom this and one that lias always maintained 
a leading part in the affairs of mankind ! We will dissect 
that in the person and actions of Monsieur Grandet ! 
When you come to comprehend all the thousand little 
mean motives and acts of Monsieur Grandet, the house 
in which lie lived, the servant who toiled for him all her 
life long, the family which too served and suffered, the 
people of his surrounding who bowed down to him and 
plotted year by year for his daughter and heiress — when 
you come to see all these clearly you will have a good 
understanding of Avarice — once for all. 

Then there is Speculation— that is a province that 
extends its borders in a good many directions. Take my 
Caesar Birotteau ! This will show you a little different 
department of human life and we will trace this passion 
and its unfortunate exemplifications in the history of a 
good, honest man, in the bourgeois life of Paris, rather 
than in that of the provincial town. Note with me, 



. BE BALZAC. 

how often a weak-minded man manages to get along in 
the world successfully and acquire a reputation for 
shrewdness and force of character just through favoring 
circumstances, and attending to a single line of business 
which he understands — and then how quickly he flies all 
to pieces when a lot of scheming swindlers get hold of 
him and inflame him with this fever of speculation ! 
Yes, after you read my Caesar Birotteau you will know 
that side of human life pretty well— and you will never be 
likely to be drawn into town lot speculations around the 
Madeleine — nor to put your money into Oklahoma nor 
Southern California after the boom is bursted — though 
you may go in the very next time when the boom is on — 
say at Tacoma, Seattle or Spokane Falls. 

Then if you wish to see what seems a still more seamy 
side of life., read my masterpiece, Pere Goriot. This 
illustrates the passion of paternal love carried to fatuity. 
In the gallery of representative fools that I, Balzac, am 
accumulating for your edification, let us place Pere 
Goriot as one of the most conspicuous, yet one who 
possibly takes hold of your sympathies when he should 
rather excite your reprehension and contempt. Poor 
Pere Goriot ! Is it the moral of thy fate, that he is the 
supreme fool in life who allows the primitive passions 
and affections which we inherit from our animal ancestors, 
to possess and control him to the absolute abdication of 
all his reasoning faculties; who allows the blind, elemental 
passion of paternity to obscure every other sentiment, 
till it usurps absolutely the place of conscience and turns 
decency out of doors ! Who wishes to be a Pere Goriot, 
and meet his inevitable fate — yet how many go halfway 
toward apotheosizing parental love under the name of duty ! 
Now whether this method of Balzac affords exercise 



BE BALZAC. 5 

of the proper solution of all the problems of life, is, 
perhaps, open to question. It scarce pretends indeed to 
reach the centers of things by any one great master-stroke, 
by any one meridian section of cleavage, laying bare 
the vital nerves and veins and tissues — it displays not 
like Browning some "Pomegranate," 

4 - Which if cut deep down the middle 
Shows a heart within, blood-tinctured 
Of a veined humanity." 

It rather takes up humanity piece-meal and treats it 
topically. Is it therefore a proper or a practical method 
in any degree? It has certainly the merit of simplicity, 
and possibly, in consideration of the extreme com- 
plexity of Life's machine, the only way is to take the 
clock to pieces and lay it on the table — just as the 
medical professors and demonstrators lay the anatomic 
"subject" on the table, and proceed to show you all the 
pieces and instruct you what is the separate function of 
each. 

And when you understand the machine — or the human 
body — by parts, and you see the master mechanic — or 
the surgeon- -place a few of them together again, you 
will know all about the functions and life processes ! 
Possibly you will be able to put the clock together again 
and make it go ! The man — or what is left of that man 
— you can't put together, or make him go, for the "go" 
has all gone out of him — but, perhaps, understanding all 
these things, you will be able to make the living man go 
just as you wish — if you comprehend all of Balzac — 
especially his metaphysics, and his esoteric Theosophy; 
and have added to that all the Psychology and the 
metaphysical Christian Science of to-day; something 
which Balzac seems to have forecasted sixty years ago. 



6 BE BALZAC. 

At all events there is a certain grandeur of simplicity 
about the literary method and manner of Balzac which 
seems to justify to some extent the application of the 
word Shakespearian. Not only Frenchmen — who are 
popularly supposed not to understand Shakespeare at all 
— but certain English and American critics have applied 
this term to Balzac. Were it not for this authority, the 
writer would fear that in estimating the method of Balzac 
with the method of Shakespeare at his ordinary level, he 
was simply betraying his lack of thorough comprehension 
of either. It has seemed to him that in their manner of 
producing an effect — the intended effect — upon the mind 
of the reader, the vivid, the intensified, the deepened 
impression of a character that stands for one thing 
through all — there was a similitude. 

Your Grandet, for example, is presented as a miser, 
pure and simple, unmitigated and unrelieved by any 
lapses into generosity or ordinary social feeling, — just v as 
your Richard the Third is put before you, an unmitigated 
butcher and brute. The man is placed upon the canvass 
with a few sweeps of a coarse brush daubed to the 
handle with heavy color. You get the intended effect at 
once and unmistakably. Pere Goriot is a doting, fatuous 
old father, who gives over his fortune, and subsequently 
melts down his silver spoons and devotes himself to cold 
and starvation, to feed the vices of his daughters — with 
no more glimmering of common sense than King Lear 
exhibits in giving up his kingdom to those harpies, Regan 
and Goneril. 

Neither writer leaves you in any incertitude as to what 
his characters will do in any case. Given the people as 
pictured forth, and they will act according to the rule of 
automatons — they will ' ' fulfil their destiny. " The ' ' bears 



DE BALZAC. 7 

and lions" will always "growl and fight, for 'tis their nature 
to." This is the rule of "types" and why though easy 
to comprehend in the first instance, they are apt to 
become a trifle uninteresting. This is the weakness of 
fiction constructed upon that plan. When once you have 
been given the knowledge of their being, the secret of 
their springs, with the key in the hand of your imagina- 
tion, you can wind them up and they will go of themselves, 
almost as well as if their author was manipulating them. 
It is like looking at Mrs. Jarley's wax figures. Richard 
the Third will continue to exclaim, as if through sheer force 
of habit, "off with his head" — and Shylock will never 
intermit his demand for sixteen ounces of raw left lung! 

By the way, the essayist must confess that even as a 
child reader, he became so heartily sick of this damnable 
iteration of Shylock, that he would have gone to any 
length to shut it off, and hence was almost ready to 
justify that thinnest and most contemptible of quibbles 
and subterfuges employed by the imported, bogus umpire 
who ruled Shylock "caught out on a foul" before he had 
made his first base. 

But while the chief representative characters of Balzac 
are more or less affected by the stiffness and weakness 
inseparable from "types," most of his other creation's 
are clearly outlined, well rounded and vigorous, life-like 
personalities. Strongly individualized, for instance, are 
his examples of the "bourgeoisie," whom Balzac always 
delights to render. In his transcription of these, our 
author is eminently happy and successful. Their shops, 
their homes, their occupations and habits, their sordid 
toils and their vulgar enjoyments, their honest virtues 
and their petty weaknesses — what other French writer 
ever knew, or knowing, ever told them half so well ! 



S BE BALZAC. 

It is with this class especially that Balzac is most at 
home, and it is within its ranks, with all their absurdities 
and little vanities, with all their limitations of ignorance 
and narrowness, that he discovers most of the saving 
virtue that exists in French society: the men are honest 
and faithful to their engagements, the women are sensible 
home loving and pure: all are alike industrious and 
thrifty, while parent and child are mutually joined to- 
gether in the bonds of self-sacrificing family affection. 

When he comes to deal with the plutocracy and 
aristocracy of his time, the era of the ' -Citizen King," 
Louis Philippe, he finds all society honey-combed with 
dishonesty and reeking with corruption. Is it indeed a 
true picture of this society that, as the boldest and baldest 
piece of realism, fits out every married woman in it with 
a paramour? The writer of Pere Goriot would seem to 
consider indeed no aristocratic household as complete 
without one, and we are left to infer, easily and plainly, 
that it is only the youngest of girls, or the woman of the 
bourgeois class, to whom remains any conception of 
innocence or virtue. 

We have already alluded to the clearness and simplicity 
of style of Balzac. This is accompanied with a directness 
and vigor of movement which constitutes a charm in the 
reading, in these days when we have either so much of 
the needless elaboration and tedious refining of small 
things of Realism or the fearfully involved plot and the 
turgid or hysterical style of composition of Sensationalism 
in romance". Both the Realistic and Romantic schools 
of to-day appear to claim Balzac, but truly he belongs 
absolutely to neither, while possessing some of the most 
agreeable traits of each. You can always tell what 
Balzac is driving at — the story goes straight along toward 



BE BALZAC. r, 

its consummation, which is sometimes, though not always, 
indicated from the start — there is little involving and no 
intricacies of plot, no marching and countermarching — 
the characters proceed in natural order of development — 
they "tend strictly to business and dont go fooling 
around." 

"Great Homer sometimes nods" or we nod as he 
recounts his tedious list of ships : Shakespeare stops the 
action of his drama at times while his fellows fire off their 
big, bombastic speeches : Dickens digresses inconse- 
quently to display the idiosyncracies and oddities of his 
characters : Thackeray pauses to moralize with genial 
or cynic observation or to belabor and abuse his own 
puppets for the very qualities he has imparted to them — 
then turns on again the music of his measure while the 
merry dance of the marionettes is happily resumed with 
the story. But, Balzac — like Tennyson's Brook, pauses 
not but "goes on forever" — until the story is over and 
the book is done. 



BALZAC AND THACKERAY. 



Some controversy has always cropped out from time 
to time, respecting the morality of Balzac's writings. It 
seems somewhat incongruous that one set of people, 
including indeed some clergymen, should discover in him 
a moralist of the severest type, while another deplores a 
writer so immoral that he stopped at no verge of common 
decency. 

Possibly there may be some ground for both opinions. 
As in the case of the storied viewers of the chameleon 
in its different conditions, the variable writer may be 
either a lovely green — or black as jet, just as you happen 
to come upon him ! Taking him thus in his contrasting 
aspects, Balzac is found both moral and immoral, but, 
in his most normal condition, I should say wholly un- 
moral. 

In the task to which he addressed himself — to tell us 
the story of human society— sufficient was it to him to 
" adorn a tale" without bothering himself to "point a 
moral." Undoubtedly he conceived that his office was 
that of the historian, rather than that of the moralist; — 
his function more truly that of the painter than the 
preacher. It was his business to reveal to us the whole 
of human life — the bad equally with the good and 
the indifferent — and he no more hesitated to treat any 
aspect of it whatever, on the ground of delicacy or 
morality, than the eminent, skilled physician or surgeon 

10 



BALZAC AND THACKERAY. u 

hesitates to treat any case of disease or deformity that 
offers itself, or to exemplify it in his clinics. 

If in the course of his faithful record, these truthful, 
scientific, clinic notes, we find that sin has drawn in its 
train its own inevitable retribution — let the reader deduce 
his moral ! 

If again, however, weakness of character has brought 
about equal suffering, misfortune and ruin, it is not 
Balzac's business to controvert the facts of sociology or 
to provide that weak-minded goodness alone shall ensure 
success and happiness in life ! 

There is a certain philosophy, which — having given 
society to you as he found it — he leaves you to deduce, 
but morality is not a matter which concerns him at all; 
— no more than it did Shakespeare himself, who in 
Portia discoursing on the divine quality of mercy, or in 
Hamlet soliloquizing on the transition from the Here to 
the Hereafter — was not a whit more personally sympa- 
thetic than in gross Falstaff with his amours, in jealous 
Moor, or in malignant Iago ! Such indeed is the 
"impersonal" theory of genius universal, that sees 
everything clearly, discriminates dispassionately and 
shares alike and equally in the inmost nature of all; — 
and, distinguishing with such marvellous insight, 
partaking thus universally, is by far too large-minded to 
be anything much less than pantheistic. "Born to a 
universe," 'tis not for Genius to "narrow his mind" 
within the range of any one set of sympathies or to limit 
his soul with any system of morals — 

'•Who sees with equal eye, as lord of all. 

A hero perish — or a sparrow fall, 

Atoms or systems into ruin hurled 

And now a bubble burst— and now a world !" 



j 2 BALZA C AND THA CKERA Y. 

Now, if the writer may be permitted, just let him 
remark that the "bubble" which should be burst, in his 
humble opinion, is one that Shakesperiolaters have inflated 
with gas something like the foregoing, forgetting that no 
one human mind can be greater than the sum of all other 
minds in the universe — or any soul, however great, own 
a prescriptive "right and title" of primogeniture that 
should exempt and absolve it from operation and 
observance of moral laws governing in this world of ours. 

^c 9fi. ■%. if. ^ if. 

Far removed from all this is Thackeray, who never 
attained, who never could have attained to this sublime 
height and supreme state of even, dispassionate feeling 
toward all the facts of life and all the actors in it ! 

What association is there between the two great names 
which flutter at the masthead of this paper? Very little, 
possibly, except that each, perhaps may be regarded as 
the ablest representative in fiction of his respective 
nation during the last literary generation, and that both 
treated especially the society of their time, though 
Thackeray by no means confined himself to his own age, 
as witness his "Esmond" and his "Virginians." 

But in their literary style they were as far apart as 
they were in their mode of representation, the picturing 
of that society. Balzac's style, as we have endeavored to 
illustrate, is both simple and direct. He tells his story 
in a straightforward fashion, without expansion or elabor- 
ation, though with all due attention to necessary detail to 
place the scene and the personages properly before you. 
Having accomplished this necessary outlining, Balzac 
paints with a few broad strokes, though each is masterly. 

Thackeray too has the quality of simplicity, but it is 
the apparent simplicity of high finish and of great art. 



BA LZA C A ND THA CKER A Y. 



13 



With infinite pains, stroke after stroke, and often 
intermitting to contemplate his work, the artist proceeds, 
modifying his broader effects with a lighter touch of 
color, here a little and there a little — "line upon line" — 
yea, and "precept upon precept," if such are ever put 
upon canvas — he goes on, and still the picture grows 
before your eyes, a marvel of representation, a literary 
masterpiece. When once finished, with its high lights 
thrown in and all its half-tones and shadows set in with 
due chiaro-oscuro, the portrait is unmistakable, the 
characterization is complete. For good or for ill it is 
done, and you will love or hate it ever after ! 

It is perhaps the very power and strength of Thackeray, 
that might of satire and keenness of irony, which have 
prevented his beauty and tenderness from being as much 
appreciated as they deserve by the mass of readers, many 
of whom have been deterred entirely from his reading 
by the impression that he was a cynic who saw too 
clearly all the ills and shams of society to discern any 
good in it. But his cynic tone of satire implies always 
that there is a soul behind the pen, that is full of righteous 
indignation against the false pretence, while sympathizing 
ardently with the genuine and the true. 

Say that he looked too deeply below the surface, and 
saw often in our vaunted deeds of charity even, the vanity 
and the selfishness that we fain would not suspect our- 
selves, least of all betray to others; say that the very 
children whose society in real life he so thoroughly 
enjoyed, are in his fiction seldom childlike; say that his 
young men are too prone to be cubs or cads and his old 
ones, snobs or scoundrels; say that almost the only 
woman he ever endowed with brains turns out to be an 
adventuress, while on the good types, he can bestow a 



H 



BALZAC AND THACKERAY. 



soft loving heart only at the expense of inevitable 
accompaniment with soft, silly head; say that his 
Pendennis is too often prolix and a prig and his Bayham 
a bore; but remember that in Ethel Newcome with all 
her pride, he has pictured a girl full of noble feeling and 
sensibility, of spirit and of intellect : and forget not that 
he has given back to the world, as we trust he may have 
found it in real life and society, the prototype of the 
perfect gentleman — one who, with all his weaknesses 
(which render him all the more natural and life-like) 
stands outlined to us in noble representation, the tenderest 
and truest, the purest and manliest — brave old Colonel 
Thomas Newcome ! That, too, in picturing the passing 
away from earth of this example of a noble soul patiently 
enduring poverty and unmerited disgrace, Thackeray 
has given to literature a passage so simple, so touching, 
that it may well endure with the language that he so 
enriched : — 

"At the usual evening hour, the chapel bell began to 
toll and Thomas Newcome's hands outside the bed 
feebly beat a time. And just as the last bell struck, a 
peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted up 
his head a little, and quickly said ' Adsiim,' and fell 
back. It was the word we used at school when names 
were called; and lo, he whose heart was as that of a little 
child, had answered to his name, and stood in the 
presence of the Master." 

Grand old Thackeray ! True it is that thou art some- 
times too scornful to be agreeable in the reading — but if 
thou wert perchance too prone to fling the arrows of 
ridicule and the barbed shafts of satire, it was always at 
pretension and folly, and falsehood and vice, that they 
were aimed and therein left transfixed for the world to 



BALZAC AND THACKERAY. 15 

mark; — it was never honest worth or humble virtue that 
was scoffed at or derided. If the line of demarcation 
betwixt our good intent and our selfish promptings was 
sometimes so sharply drawn that it made us wince with 
the pain of mortification, we could not say after all that 
it swerved to the wrong side, albeit it divided too 
exclusively on that side, more of our own thoughts and 
acts than we had fain believed ! 

Grand old Thackeray ! Thank fortune that there is 
nothing universal or impersonal about the quality of thy 
genius ! Thou hadst prepossessions, prejudices, plenty of 
them and strong ones — against social shams and moral in- 
iquities — and in favor of decency and clean living, manly 
honor and womanly virtue ! In spite of a cynic manner, 
sometimes assumed it may be to cover and veil a 
tenderness and delicacy of nature almost to be regarded 
as effeminate, — whenever a moral conflict is on — always, 

■■ In the strife twixt truth and falsehood, 
For the good— or evil side " 

thy position is easy enough to be discovered. Masked 
though it be by the batteries of satire, it is all the more 
strongly entrenched — and behind them thou carriest on 
always an effective warfare against the strongholds of 
dishonor — against the cohorts of vice ! 



A LITERARY FORECAST. 



In his delineation of Balfour of Burley in "Old Mor- 
tality," Sir Walter Scott forecasted almost to a prophecy 
the character of John Brown. 

The age, the country and the cause differed widely, 
but the coincidence in character is striking. It would 
seem as if the key of every apparent anomaly in the life 
of the man of Harper's Ferry — anomalies so startling 
that men even yet refuse to credit some of the well- 
determined facts of his history — might be found in Scott's 
portrayal of Balfour. 

Devout, but pervert; conscientious, yet unscrupulous 
and remorseless; bold and direct in purpose and action, 
yet capable of craft and dissimulation; rash, yet deliberate 
and calculating; both tender and terrible; a homicide 
and a hero; a murderer and a martyr; — these are 
antagonisms that may exist in the life of a religious 
fanatic, and Sir Walter Scott with his deep insight 
wrought their seeming incongruities and paradoxes into 
the type of Balfour — while John Brown exemplified and 
repeated them in the stress of a great crisis, two centuries 
after the time to which he legitimately belonged. 

16 



WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEA? 



We had been all day in the Burns country — retracing 
in one long summer day the footprints of a life journey 
all too brief, but in the reverse order of its natural course, 
beginning as we did in the early morning at the Poet's 
tomb in Dumfries and ending, in the late twilight, at the 
cottage near Ayr, "where the bard-peasant first drew 
breath." 

Leaying Kirk Alloway, passing a little farther up the 
slope on the turn to the west — and there before us is the 
sea ! Beyond, dim in the gathering shades of eyen, are 
the pale hills of Arran across the Firth of Clyde, and 
farther still, through an opening in the hills, we faintly 
descry the Mull of Cantire. 

We had been saying to ourselyes all day long as we had 
passed from one beautiful scene to another as fair, or 
fairer yet, each in its glowing or quiet beauty lending some 
suggestion of exuberant joyousness, of peaceful calm or 
pensiye melancholy, and all familiar in their every aspect 
to Robert Burns: — What wonder indeed that he has 
commemorated so many of them, for who with a heart 
awake to Nature's charms might not be swayed to some 
expression of poetic feeling ! 

Burns has been fitly called Nature's Poet, which 
reciprocally should make him the poet of Nature. It is 
true indeed that he comes very close to the heart of 
nature in many of her tenderest moods and aspects. But 

3 17 



18 WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEA? 

after all, is it not a limited nature that he finds and 
reproduces? It is that of the field, the stream, the grove. 
He is the Poet of the Plain ! 

It has lately been told me by one somewhat familiar 
with the learning of India — the literature of Brahminism — 
that it would really seem as if that ancient stock of the 
Aryan race might have been color-blind to one of the 
finest tints in nature, the blue of the sky, for they have 
left behind no record of their observation of this beautiful 
noonday aspect of the heavens, while their literature 
fairly glows with the gorgeous tints of morn and even. 

As we rose to the summit of the hill back of Kirk 
Alloway, and the beautiful view of the Firth broke upon 
our eyes, it came to me as a special revelation of wonder 
that Burns, the royal favorite of Nature, was color-blind 
to the glory of the sea ! 

For all the years of his boyhood and into early man- 
hood, he lived within a mile of the sea— its sights before 
his eye and its sounds often in his ear — and yet, how 
few hints of this fact are to be found in all his poems ! 

It may be, as the Firth here lies somewhat sheltered 
by islands, that the force of marine storms is measurably 
broken, and that the might and majesty of ocean in its 
wildest and grandest moods were seldom, if ever, visible to 
him; but yet there were aspects of it which must have 
been familiar and which, one would think, would have 
impressed his imaginative sensibilities; those for instance 
which Mr. Blaine once recited as longed for and welcomed 
by the dying Garfield, who, "With wan fevered face 
tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze looked out wistfully 
upon the ocean's changing wonders. On its far sails 
whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves 
rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday 



WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEA/ 19 

sun; on the red clouds of the evening arching low to the 
horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars." 

Why should not such scenes inspire a poet to noble 
song, when the man of Politics is moved by them to 
such eloquent wording — and how should the poet miss all 
those grand suggestions of Time and Eternity that may 
be borne with the breakers into the consciousness of 
Statesman — as intimated in the same eulogy: 

"Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic 
meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know ! 
Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world, 
he heard the great waves breaking on a farther shore and 
felt already on his wasted brow the breath of the eternal 
morning." 

Thus have the great souls of all times felt and spoken; 
thus the texture of their language been interwoven with 
the imagery of the sea ! 

I may have read imperfectly, but I recall scarce more 
than a single couplet indicating that Burns was acquainted 
with the roar of the breakers. Yet this pair of sounding 
lines, while it negatives thus far the presumption that he 
was entirely blind and deaf to the beauty and grandeur 
of the ocean, proves at the same time that the coast of 
Ayr was far from being unworthy of his poetic notice. 
This occurs in his "Twa Brigs of Ayr:" 

"• The tide-swollen Firth with sullen sounding roar 
Through the still night dashed hoarse along the shore.' ' 

Again, we recall that Burns made more than one visit 

to the mountainous districts of Scotland — traversing them 

once as far north as Inverness — but we look through his 

poems almost in vain for descriptions of the grandeur of 

mountain scenery. One allusion only I can bring forward 

which conjoins in one brief stanza, in broad panoramic 



20 WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEA/ 

view, the three magnificent features of Scottish scenery: 

" Here, rivers in the sea were lost ! 
There mountains to the sky were tost ! 
Here tumbling billows marked the coast 
With surging foam." 

Perhaps the very suggestion is supplied in the poem 

from which I extract this verse — "The Vision" — which 

may account for Burns' narrowed restriction in the field 

of nature. Therein he dedicates himself as a poet — not 

to universal nature by any means, but to that of //is 

district/ That he was conscious of the grandeur of 

mountain and of sea, the lines above quoted from his early 

poems seem about the only evidence. Thenceforth the 

wide outlook on nature is abandoned, the hills and vales 

of Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire take its place. Says 

Wordsworth: 

"Two voices are there: one is of the sea, 
One of th 3 mountains — ^ach a mighty voice." 

It seems to me that the truly great poet must give some 
utterance, some expression, to these two mighty voices ! 
Burns declined to attempt it. Perhaps he was wise and 
the world has gained through his restraint. He painted 
no marines or mountain views indeed, but his quiet land- 
scapes are unexcelled in tender beauty and suggestiveness. 
A sentiment often underlies them beyond the reach of 
words. More than this — they are not landscapes merely — 
there are always human figures in the picture, in fore- 
ground or the middle distance. He paints man ! 

After all, I think Burns will live longest as a song 
writer. In that he did the literature of his native Scotland 
an immense service. He wedded familiar, sweet and 
plaintive airs that had long been straying around the 
country, entirely homeless or sheltering in low-lived 
quarters, to worthy, pure and sometimes noble words. 



WAS BUBNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEA? 2 l 

The union has become a perpetual one, the songs are 

sung wherever the language is spoken. 

•• And still the burden of his song 
Is love of right— disdain of wrong; 

Its master chords 
Are Manhood. Freedom, Brotherhood- 
Its discords, but an interlude 

Between the words. 
****** 
For now he haunts his native land 
As an immortal youth— his hand 

Guides every plough- 
He sits beside each ingle-nook, 
His voice is in each rushing brook 

Each rustling bough." 

And if such be the sentiment toward Burns, as voiced 
by our revered Longfellow, then surely the influence of 
song is a pervading and mighty one — and there never 
was a stronger exemplification of the words uttered two 
hundred years ago by old Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun: 
"If a man be permitted to make all the ballads, he need 
not care who should make the laws of a nation." 

One thing to be taken into account, in estimating what 
Burns accomplished, is that he died at the early age of 
thirty -seven. Many of our best poets have lived to 
twice this age and performed their best work within the 
latter half of the lives thus matured. Whether added 
length of years would have brought any richer life fruits, 
unless that healthful temperament of body and soul which 
prolongs life and confers its greatest power had also been 
bestowed upon Burns is a question hard to answer, as 
well as the other problem, that of the due measure of 
responsibility resting on the man himself for the misuse 
of the good gifts and the indulgence of the hot passions 
of his nature ! 

The worst misfortune of all, it seems to me, concerning 
him, is that so much of the soil that contaminated his life 



22 WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEA? 

found expression in his verse and has unhappily survived 
him in the subsequently collected editions. Too late, 
when broken down by his last sickness, Burns himself 
regretted that this was likely to be so and that he had not, 
in time, culled out and destroyed the worthless. It is too 
much to hope that even then some of the sticks and 
stones and mud-clods that he had thrown would not have 
been gathered and bound up into sheaves with the golden 
grain; but we might have been spared the worst of them. 
When, oh when, shall we find publishers bold enough to 
screen out the chaff and dirt from among the wheat and 
give us clean, expurgated editions of Burns, Byron, 
Shakespeare ? 

In the meantime, Burns' earnest pleading may well be 
applied as a mantle of charity toward himself — his life 
and work: 

•■Then at the balance let's he mute 
We never can adjust it, 
What" s done we partly may compute 
But know not what's resisted."' 

Computing partlv by whafs been done, we can venture 
to assert, however, that it is perfectly possible for a boy 
born in poverty and obscurity and nurtured among rude 
surroundings, to grow up into a great poet — leaving 
behind him a clean life and noble works of poetic genius, 
with no unworthy ones — not one line written "which 
dying he might wish to blot." Some exceptional proofs 
have been given of this even in the old days, but most 
striking and noble ones in the poets of our own time and 
in our own land. 

There is an old castle in Scotland — visited, indeed, the 
day succeeding that of our Burns pilgrimage — whose 
name is memorable in history. Its tinted walls of red 
sandstone, overhung with the green of ivy, are picturesque 



WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEA? 23 

and beautiful even in their decay. At its foot, a lovely 
stream glides along, rippling over the smooth-worn rocks 
and pebbles, whose further slopes break down to it in 
sunny braes, or swell backward into fir-covered knowes 
and birken-shaws, while on its own side, the wooded glade 
soon gives place to fair fields and pastures green, leading 
on to gentle slopes and sunny vales, dotted over with 
cheerful cottages and adorned with one stately mansion. 
The landscape, though limited, is one of the "bonniest" 
in all Scotland ! 

In the old, fierce days when every man's hand was 
against his neighbor, the owner of this castle — generous, 
proud, fiercely independent, acknowledging allegiance to 
none, of hot passions and bold, reckless tongue — found 
many foes, chief among which were those in his own 
unquiet breast. In an unequal contest, where quarter 
was neither given nor taken, his castle was besieged, its 
garrison overpowered, its battlements torn down, its 
strong tower demolished, never to be rebuilt. 

Uninhabited it stands and forsaken; but inspiring as 
well as mournful memories cluster around it and some- 
times draw to it the wandering footsteps of the traveller 
from beyond the seas. In its quiet nooks the field-mouse 
builds her nest and the wounded hare finds a covert; the 
daisy and the cowslip sprinkle the neighboring leas; the 
pleasant river still murmurs by its base, and the song- 
birds of heaven, the mavis, the merle and the lavrock 
warble their sweet lays as they build among the branches 
that yet cast a tender shadow over its time-worn walls. 

Historically you may call this Bothwell Castle — but if 
such could be a poet's emblem, that broken tower I 
would name- -Robert Burns ! 

In the borders of the Black Forest there is an old 



24 WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEAt 

castle whose towers still rise high amid the lofty trees 
and crown the summit of a mountain which looks abroad 
over vast stretches of country once called Duchies, 
Kingdoms, Provinces. On the near hand are dark, 
rolling forests, breaking off at times against rocky prom- 
inences surmounted by other ancient strongholds, whose 
foundation stones were laid in the days of the Romans. 

Beneath nestles a charming green valley, sparkling 
with bright villas that mark the environs of the most 
famous watering place in Europe. To the west it looks 
down upon a magnificent plain, "rich with corn and 
wine," luxuriant with the life of scattered hamlets, towns 
and cities — a magnificent panorama spread out for near 
one hundred miles — the broad valley of the Rhine. Far 
beyond, the eye reaches, at the horizon, the distant wavy 
outline of the "Blue Alsatian Mountains." How many 
elements, both of grandeur and of beauty, doth this fair 
landscape comprise ! 

This castle, too, has had its history, its hot youth of 
ardent contest and defeat; but for the last two hundred 
years, from its grand seat, it has looked calmly down upon 
struggles that have convulsed empires. 

And yet, even in its decay, it is far from lifeless. Day 
by day it is sought by young and old alike. On the 
sunny slope of its terrace, we beheld gay pic-nic groups 
of pleasure seekers; through its winding courts strays 
wooing youth with maiden; while the inner hall, though 
roofless, resounded to our ears with the jocund laugh and 
happy sports of childhood. The artist, too, comes to 
fondly reproduce, on paper or canvas, its picturesque 
features or reminiscences of its old-time glories. 

More than this. Across all the grand, old, empty 
casements, deft hands have strung wires of differing size 



WAS BURNS COLOR-BLIND TO THE SEAi 



25 



and tension — "harps that the wandering breezes tune" — 

and now the old castle knows music sweeter far than was 

ever awakened by its harpers of old, as the rising or 

falling winds steal softly or sweep grandly across the 

chords of these harps of ^Eolus; now weird and low, and 

anon swelling in magnificent diapason which reverberates 

through all its ancient arches, and again subsiding in 

tender cadence inexpressibly plaintive and touching. 

To me, no organ peal resounding amid the dim aisles 

of vast cathedral, no 

"Bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling, 
Such magical sense conveys," 

as these "airs from heaven" ringing their own melody! 

There is naught like it but — the poet of fourscore years 
singing at eventide, who, as the nearing shades of the 
dark forest fall upon him, yet looks trustfully out upon 
the beautiful plain, bright with the beams of the setting 
sun — and onward to the peaks of the Delectable Moun- 
tains bathed in sunset's gold. Still singing because it is 
in his heart to sing ! 

Over there they may call this castle the "Alt Schloss 
Hcehenbaden," but, if this too could be assigned as Poet's 
emblem, in fancy truer I would name it from loved bard 
of our own land — Whittier ! 

Would that the grand name and fame which in future 
will so justly attach to his, could as worthily rest with thy 
memory, poor Bobbie Burns! 



SCOTT-LAND. 



(From a lecture delivered at the State University of Kansas.) 

A New World — the Realm of Books ! Broad conti- 
nents whose teeming plains or Hesperidean valleys yield 
the ripened grain or golden fruits of Knowledge; — great 
seas traversed by a thousand argosies which bear home- 
ward from far-off isles or dim mysterious shores the 
strange, rich treasures of Imaginative Thought ! 

Such isles of Romance — such plains of Verity — have 
been brought within your ken, young student of Kansas 
University ! Such New World you perchance discovered, 
Columbus-like, and made it your own, when, for the first 
time, you entered the confines of a room below — The 
Library ! 

In the long years before you, it may be your fortune 
to receive many varied and rich impressions. It were 
little, indeed, to say that scarce shall one arrive to you 
that may not remind you of something already traced in 
yonder volumes. 

Traversing to the Atlantic and then across its bounds, 
you may one day attain to that much desired haven of 
the American scholar — the Old World of Europe. 
Standing in certain rooms of the old Tower of London, 
the Museum Johannes at Dresden, or the Invalides of 
Paris, you may gather new impressions like the rays of 
light reflected to your eyes from countless gleaming arms 
and armor. Like Longfellow at Springfield, you exclaim: 

• '■ This is the Arsenal— from floor to ceiling, 
Like a vast organ, rise the burnished arms ! " 

26 



SCOTT-LAND. 



27 



Insensible then, indeed, were you to a thousand historic 
memories, could you fail to be impressed by the number- 
less trophies which Time has wrested from the nerveless 
grasp of mighty warriors of the ages past, from the days 
of Cceur-de-Lion to Napoleon the Great. "Departed 
spirits of the mighty dead" — these, their battle-axe and 
sword and shield, and not the marble mausoleum reared 
"amid the long drawn aisle and fretted vault," — these 
are their fitting monument. Heroes of old, peace to 
your ashes ! 

"Your good swords rust, 
Your steeds are dust. 
Your souls are with the saiuts, we trust I *' 

But standing beneath the dome of the British Museum, 
or in the rooms of the Bodleian at Oxford — noting the 
vast multitude of books piled, range upon range, "from 
floor to ceiling," while, near by, hundred of cases 
preserve rare manuscripts that date centuries back of the 
oldest printed volumes, with autographs of famous kings 
and still more famous Kings of Letters — you shall scarce 
fail to be moved to a tenfold greater degree than by any 
trophies of military greatness, however memorable. 
These, you exclaim, are the forces that shall influence 
the world hereafter — the weapons of Knowledge. " This 
is the Arsenal, these the burnished arms ! " 

And yet, if I may gauge your feelings by mine own, I 
should say that even then your enthusiasm might scarce 
renew, much less surpass that of your earlier days, when 
first made free of the University Library. After all, a 
well selected list of *five thousand volumes comprises the 
heart of the world's literature, and the first rich zest of 
the seeking mind is scarce to be transcended. 



*Now (1S90) Increased to 11.000 volumes. 



28 SCOTT-LAND. 

As fresh and fair as ever to me is that bright day of 
boyhood when first I entered a quiet room in an old, brick 
farm-house in Quaker Pennsylvania and, coming into the 
possession which a season ticket in its circulating library 
of i, 600 volumes gave me, went forth from that day into 
a strange new world — into 

••That new world which was the old.'" 

Exploring the wide confines of that world, I one day 
discovered a new Kingdom — Scott-land ! In all the 
grand realms of literature, the bright sun of genius illumed 
no land more fair — among all the spells of Romance, to 
me none more potent than that cast by the mighty 
magician, the Wizard of the North ! 

Poesy, History, Romance; wondrous legend, impas- 
sioned rhetoric, inspiring thought; these were so wonder- 
fully woven, so inextricably blended, you knew not of 
the three-fold spell which element was the most powerful 
nor which held the greatest charm ! 

He tells of his mythical wizard of the same patro- 
nymic, Sir Michael Scott, such was his magic power, 

•■ That when in Salamanca's cave 
He list his niagic wand to wave, 
The bells would ring in Notre Dame." 

But what was this compared with the "magic of the 
mind" exercised by the real Wizard, who, when he lifted 
his magic wand — the pen — could ring for us the bells of 
every land from Scotland to Palestine, until we heard 
the swell of St. Mary's in fair Melrose chiming in 
unison with those that hung in the minarets of St. Jean 
D'Acre ! 

'• Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music 
Still fills the wide expanse, 
Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present 
With color of romance. 11 



SCOTT-LAND. 



29 



With that magic music ringing in our ears, come 
trooping forth a wondrous procession, the marvellous yet 
material inhabitants of Scott-land ! 

Before us throng the people of differing races, climes 
and ages, beginning with the Waverley, whose date to the 
author's day was but " Sixty Years Since," and extending 
back into the remote, yet not dim perspective of king 
and swineherd of the Norman Conquest; the hermit- 
saint, the Red-Cross knight, and turbaned Turk of the 
days of the Crusades. 

In fancy compelled, we follow Richard of the Lion 
Heart to the plains of Palestine, and with him storm the 
walls of Acre or hold courteous parley with the princely 
paynim Saladin ! Anon, we are back on English ground, 
and with gallant Ivanhoe overthrow Bois-Guilbert and 
Front-de-Boeuf in the tourney lists of Ashby-de-la- 
Zouche, whilst the fair daughter of Isaac of York looks 
fearfully on and stately lady Rowena gives the victor's 
prize ! We scale, with young Arthur Phillipson, the 
crags of Switzerland, to win the smile of sweet Anne of 
(ieierstein, and, at midnight, we are silently lowered with 
his father, the fearless old Karl of Oxford, into the 
underground chambers of the dreaded Vehm-Gericht of 
German}' '. With stout Smith-of-the-Wynd we fight 
along with Clan Quehele and thirst for the extermination 
of the last intervening champion of Clan Chattan, that 
we may get one stroke at their recreant chief, the whilom 
glover's apprentice ! 'We follow the fickle fortunes of 
Sir Nigel through fierce Alsatia, as we do the wandering 
steps of bold Quentin Durward through foreign Flanders 
and fair France ! With rugged Balfour of Burley we 
wield the "sword of the Lord and of Gideon" against 
the troopers of bloody Claverhouse, at the battle of 



30 



s/ OTT-LAND. 



Bothwell Brig ! Again the sound of revelry is heard, 
and with the false Earl of Leicester we welcome to Kenil- 
worth Castle, with pomp and rejoicing, "Good Queen 
Bess," learned and vain, amorous, haughty, and mean, 
while poor Amy Robsart, the deserted and ill-fated 
countess, is treacherously dismissed, to mingle her falling 
tears with the "dews of summer night that fall," at 
Cumnor Hall. With Julian Avenel and bold Catherine 
Seyton we conspire to release Mary Stuart from her prison 
of Lochleven Castle, and the spell of the author over us 
is as the witchery of the fascinating queen upon the boy 
page, that whilst her dark guilt is intimated, her misfor- 
tunes and her magnetism obscure our better judgment, 
and we, too, are ready to do and to dare everything to 
save her from her impending, inevitable fate ! Away 
from lake to the Highlands, in whose fastnesses we lose 
ourselves with that unique soldier of fortune, Sir Dugald 
Dalgetty, and vanish with the Children of the Mist, whilst 
the baying of pursuing bloodhounds is faintly heard in 
distant defiles below ! We dine with Dandie Dinmont, or 
taste the witch's broth that Meg Merrilies pours scalding 
into the smuggler's throat, while Dominie Sampson 
exclaims "Prodigious;" or with faithful, lying, old Caleb 
Balderstone, we steal the roasted fowls from the spit, for 
our master's honored guests — a light foil of humor which 
more completely shades the dark tragedy of Ravenswood 
and poor Lucy of Lamraermoor. 

We follow on foot, from "within a mile of Edinboro' 
Town" all the way to London, the true hearted, the 
noble though lowly-born Jennie Deans, till we secure 
from the gracious Queen a pardon for erring sister Effie ! 
We — but it is useless and time fails to recall more of the 
thousand "beautiful pictures that hang on memory's 



SCOTT-LAND. 



31 



wall" in the enchanted chambers of that grand old feudal 
castle, stormed and ruled by the founder of Abbotsford — 
the Castle of Historic Romance, wherein preserved are 
all that was best, bravest and most beautiful of all the 
centuries of Feudalism; for it was to this historic feudal 
era that belonged the genius of Sir Walter Scott, who 
lived the century after its departure, but in time to be 
moulded and swayed by its charm to its perfect revela- 
tion: 

•• For all his life the charm did talk 
About his path— and hover near. 
With words of promise in his walk. 
And whispered voices at his ear.'" 

And like the enchanted palace to the Fairy Prince, this 

feudal castle opened to his magic key; from long-century 

sleep, its voices woke, 

• And buzzed and clacked. 
And all the long-pent stream of life. 
Dashed downward in a cataract. " 
^^^^^^^^■^ 

And yet, though the kingdom of Scott was wider than 
the breadth of Europe, there was one little province 
which, while on its extreme western marge, was yet its 
center, its heart; and though the least in circumference 
was by far the greatest of all — little Scotland. Scotland 
with one "t" ! 

Macedonia of old, was greater than all the rest of 
Alexander's world beside, for it bred and inspired Alex- 
ander: Rome, than all the rest of the great Roman 
Empire; little England, than the whole of vast India, 
Australia and all the islands of the sea. And the land 
of Sir Walter Scott was, above all else, the little rugged 
province of his home and love: 

•• Land of brown heath and shaggy wood. 
Land of the mountain and the flood." 



o 2 SCOTT-LAND. 

And so, the genuine lover of Scott has found his dearest 

imagination ever turning away, from desert of Syria, 

though traversed by Richard of the Lion Heart and the 

brave Knight of the Leopard; from peaks of Switzerland; 

from sunny plains of France; from lawless Whitefriars; 

from lonely midnight rambles in the Park of Woodstock; 

from gay joust and tournament on the field of "Ashby-de- 

la-Zouche; from queenly revels even in the halls of 

Kenilworth; back to that picturesque region of mist and 

mountain and moorland, where, irradiated with the finest 

glow of the Author's magic fancy, 

'• Every rock and hill and stream 
Appareled with celestial light did seem 
The glory and the freshness of a dream." 



GEORGE FOX AND HIS JOURNAL. 



Up in the garret of the old Pennsylvania farm-house in 
which I was born, I made discovery, very early in my 
boyhood days, of a wonderful book. It was a musty, 
antiquated volume, that had come down from I know not 
what ancestor, printed at least a century before, in the 
old-fashioned type wherein the "s" and "f" are insep- 
arably confused to the modern eye; a bulky and ponderous 
quarto, about the size originally of "the family Bible 
that lay on the stand" down stairs. A homely old book, 
with its heavy, coarse, whitey-brown, uncalendered 
paper — the front one of its leather covers departed, and 
with it some of the earlier pages beside. But this ragged 
old volume, or what was left of it, was a veritable mine 
of romance to my youthful imagination, as much so as 
any rare edition of Froissart to the antiquary, or a 
fragment of Thomas the Rhymer to Sir Walter Scott. 

In the early spring or late autumn, when the farm work 
was apt to be interrupted by storms, I sought the old 
garret and devoured the pages — reading them many 
times over I dare say, often oblivious to the passing 
hours, and turning the leaves at last with fingers chilled, 
numb and blue. Some forty-odd years have passed 
since then, but still the vision of the old attic comes 
freshly back to-day: its bare shingles and rafters overhead, 
the old spinning-wheel and reel in one corner, a discarded 
meal chest for a table, and the wonderful book, which I 

4 33 



34 



GEORGE FOX AND HIS JOURNAL. 



seem ever reading in association with that most melodious 
of musical monotones, the patter of the rain drops on the 
roof. 

Now this remarkable work, for such I considered it, 
and so it seems to me even yet, was none of those 
famous, old-time classics of boyhood, "The Arabian 
Nights," --Robinson Crusoe," ''Pilgrim's Progress," 
nor yet "Don Quixote," nor even the half-historic, half- 
mythic "Lives" of Plutarch, but merely the autobiog- 
raphy of a man who began life as a shoemaker's apprentice 
and ended it as a Quaker preacher — the "Journal of 
George Fox." It was the simple life record of the 
founder of Quakerism. But to begin jwith, it had one 
great, rightful hold on the mind of youth (say what we 
may as to a child's fondness for fiction), it was all true, 
or at least the earnest writer firmly believed it to be true, 
which, I take it, is about the same in effect to a boy of 
ten. Moreover, it was no tame and tedious recital of 
ministerial wanderings and ponderings. There was much 
in it I could not understand, but it was brim full of 
incident and adventure, bursts of rugged, untaught elo- 
quence, and passages of kindling fire, where fervid 
rhapsody seemed mounting into inspired sublimity. The 
writer had traversed all of Great Britain and many other 
countries beside, and wherever he went had created a 
sensation, a tumult, a whirlwind; had gone unannounced 
and uninvited into "steeple houses" (as he termed the 
churches), and, like Christ in the Temple, had therein 
boldly denounced the traffickers in religion; had stood in 
the market-places and highways and reproved the besetting- 
sins of the people; had challenged the authority of Chief 
Justice of England, and, in person or by message, had 
sharply catechized or prophetically warned lord protec- 



GEORGE FOX AND HIS JOURNAL. 35 

tors, crowned kings and sovereign pontiffs of Rome. He 
had slept under hedges and refuged in ditches; had been 
literally floored by the Bible in the hands of infuriated 
clergymen whom he had just effectually •• floored" in 
discussion; had been stoned and beaten, well nigh 
murdered by raging populace; dragged to jails by rude 
soldiery — loathsome jails, whose horrors are happily 
unimagined in these days — languished therein for months 
and years, and, when finally released, renewed his life-work 
as fresh, as unconquerable as ever. Again, he was a seer 
and a prophet: had wonderful visions, wrought miracles, 
invoked judgments, and foretold miseries and destructions 
to come. But time would fail to catalogue a tithe of his 
doings, or adequately describe his wonderful Journal, 
whose chief merit, after all, is the key it furnishes as to 
the inner history of that interesting sect — the Quakers. 

What constitutes Quakerism ? The ordinary observer 
of externals merely, might give as incorrect an answer as 
if he should describe the fruit of the cocoa-palm by its 
outer covering — something uniformly, homely and dry, 
hard and husky; yet to those familiar with the real 
nature, the same shell or outer garb would be suggestive 
of the cool, refreshing richness within, while the beau- 
teous and luscious odored pomegranate should prove 
worthless save to scent and sight. 

Though these odd and quaint externals may seem 
absurd to the multitude, they all had, once at least, the 
significance of vital principles, which the wearers were 
willing to uphold through persecution unto death, and 
are, perhaps, the useless, well-nigh obsolete coverings 
of a religious faith very much like Christianity in its 
original purity, and as lovely as the world e'er saw ! 

The rise of the people called Quakers was one of the 



36 GEORGE FOA' AND HIS JOURNAL. 

greatest anomalies of any age. In the midst of a violent 
civil war — the first great Revolution of England — when 
every man's hand was against his neighbor, sprang up 
this sect, one of whose leading principles was the total 
abandonment of brute force and the substitution of peace 
and good-will for the sword and cannon. Whilst Church- 
man, Papist, Presbyterian, Independent and Anabaptist, 
alternately fought and prayed, rose up and trampled 
each other down; whilst Cavalier and Roundhead, Charles 
the First and Prince Rupert, Fairfax and Cromwell were 
crimsoning with fraternal blood the fields of Marston 
Moor, Naseby, Preston, Worcester and Dunbar, to 
establish a kingdom or a republic that might last but for 
a day, these obscure people were inaugurating a real, 
though silent revolution which (only partially consum- 
mated it is true) has yet overturned thrones, freed millions 
of slaves, and in the practice of national arbitrament 
may yet put an end to all wars and fightings, 

" Till the war-drum throb no longer, and the battle flags are furled 
In the Parliament of Man— the Federation of the World ! " 

It was time for a new dispensation or a revival of the 

old in its purity. Out of all the ecclesiastical rubbish 

of the age, the debris of former systems and superstitions, 

what was there left to build on as from the beginning? 

Simply the reason — the soul of man — and its author. 

Tradition may fade away in the lapse of time, the written 

word may be misinterpreted or falsified, but God will not 

leave us without the living witness in our hearts. If we 

will be watchful and obedient to this light of truth, which 

is the Divine, the universal reason operating on our 

hearts and consciences, it will in time lead us into all 

truth; our spiritual perceptions growing day by day as we 

conform our lives to their teachings. The spirit of God 



GEORGE FOX AND HIS JOURNAL. 



37 



that inspired in the past is still universally present in the 
hearts of men, and Revelation is not a closed book. Such 
was the faith of the Quakers ! 

Turn we now to the founders of this faith. We might 
classify the three who stand out prominently as the great 
leaders in its origin in English history, the three great 
lights (besides the inner light) of Quakerism: George 
Fox, the prophet and preacher; Robert Barclay, the 
scholar and writer; William Penn, the colonizer and 
statesman. Not that this classification is complete and 
distinctive, for there was a blending of different charac- 
teristics in all. Though pre-eminently a teacher of 
religion, Fox was also a vigorous and prolific writer and 
an executive framer of no mean order, for chiefly he 
originated the policy and government of the society. 
Robert Barclay, of Uri, the descendant of a noble, old 
family, memorable in Scottish history, was a noted 
preacher and propagandist, though decidedly the scholar 
and most able literary defender of their principles; while 
the acute intellect and high culture of William Penn 
rendered him eminent in every field of labor into which 
his ardent enthusiasm carried him, though now chiefly 
known to the world as the successful founder of the great 
Quaker Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Of these three, 
time allows but a brief glance at one, and it will properly 
be directed to the great and original genius, George Fox, 
the founder. Born in 1624 in Leicestershire, the son of 
an honest weaver called by his neighbors, after the fashion 
of those days, "Righteous Christer," and his mother of 
the stock of the martyrs, he was from early childhood a 
grave, serious lad; faithful, earnest, conscientious, pure 
and delicate minded, shunning all evil associations. His 
friends thought the career of a minister indicated for 



38 GEORGE FOX AND HIS JOURNAL. 

him, but were persuaded otherwise, and he was apprenticed 
to a shoemaker, who also fed and dealt largely in sheep. 
His employer entrusted much business to him, which 
was faithfully transacted, and it was well known that 
when George Fox said "verily " there was no moving him. 
At the age of nineteen, noting the inconsistent conduct 
of life of professedly religious people, he fell into deep 
trouble of mind over the vanities of the world, and 
having cried unto the Lord, he was commanded to forsake 
and become a stranger to them all. Obeying the voice, 
he left his relatives and friends, and for years wandered 
to and fro, often in the fields, woods and solitary places 
of the country side, and sometimes buried himself in the 
greater wilderness and loneliness of London. He fasted 
much; he meditated and prayed; he longed for a 
knowledge of the great mystery of existence, its aims and 
ends. He sought knowledge of the clergy. One advised 
him to marry; another to join Cromwell's army; still 
another would have him be bled and take medicine. (In 
those days even the ministers would give physic to a 
mind diseased.) Failing in obtaining light from the 
churchmen, he turned to the Dissenters, who seemed 
earnest and zealous, but soon became convinced that 
they were themselves still in darkness and could not speak 
to his condition. Saddened, he sought solitude again, 
and struggled alone with the problems that were pressing 
on him for solution. Sometimes, breaking through the 
gloomy clouds that encompassed him, gleams of celestial 
light shone in, irradiated the dark places of his soul and 
possessed him with a heavenly joy. In such seasons of 
retirement from the active world, amid conflicting and 
alternating temptations and exaltations of the soul, the 
great religions of the world have been born. At last, to 



GEORGE FOX AND HIS JOURNAL. 



39 



the earnest seeker, amid the calm and silence of nature, 
falls upon the waiting heart "the still small voice" of 
God. 

So it seemed to George Fox that, "through many 
alternations of hopes and fears, his seeking mind was 
gently led along to principles of endless and eternal 
love." He was taught that "there was an authority in 
man to teach him that God would himself instruct his 
people without the intervention of university - taught 
priest; that none can be ministers of Christ but in the 
Eternal Spirit, which was before the Scriptures were 
given forth; that there is no holy ground in church or 
temple, but only in people's hearts." Confident of the 
truth of revelations that had given peace to his soul and 
gladness to his heart, he felt impelled to go forth and 
proclaim the glorious truth to the world. In his own 
language: "Thus travelled I on in the Lord's service as 
the Lord led me ! I was to bring people up from all the 
world's religions, which were vain, that they might know 
the true religion — might visit the fatherless, the widow 
and the orphan, and keep themselves from the spots of 
the world. I was to bring them up from the world's 
fellowships, prayings and singings, which stood in form 
without power; from Jewish ceremonials; from heathenish 
fables: from men's inventions and windy doctrines, which 
blow people about from sect to sect; from all their 
images, crossings and sprinklings, with their holy days 
so-called, and all their vain traditions which they had got 
up since the Apostles' days." 

In other words, George Fox was to preach a religion 
outside of churches, rites and creeds; a gospel of 
humanity, whose seed was universally implanted, and 
destined to grow and blossom and fruit into the practical, 



4 o 



GEORGE FOX AND HIS JOURNAL. 



worthy living of lives patterned after that which Christ 
led upon the earth. That God is the universal loving 
Father and all mankind one brotherhood, was not merely 
a fine theory with George Fox. In every act of his life 
he sought to give that practical exemplification of his 
belief, which is usually the most obnoxious form in which 
we can express our radical ideas. 

Sir Henry Vane was an advanced republican of those 
days, but he could treat Fox with severity for not removing 
his hat in "his honor's" presence. On the other hand, 
it reads rather singularly, in the wonderful Journal, when 
we often find the great historic "Protector" of England 
referred to as simple "O.Cromwell." The title of "Friend" 
was the address adopted universally by the Quakers to 
emphasize the great principle, "all men are equal by their 
birth." Whilst reverencing the Scriptures, Fox freely 
denounced the Bible idolatry so prevalent in his day, 
and not totallv extinct in ours. As he heard the bells of 
Nottingham Church, near the home of his boyhood, 
calling the people together, "the sound struck to his 
heart, for it was like a market bell assembling them for 
the priest to offer his wares — the Scriptures — for sale." 
One First-day morning he was moved to go to the great 
"steeple-house" and cry against their idol. "When I 
came there," says Fox, "all the people looked like fallow 
ground, and the priest, like a huge lump of earth, stood 
in his pulpit above. He took for his text those words of 
Peter, 'We also have a more sure word of prophecy,' 
and told them this was the Scriptures, by which we were 
to try all doctrines, religions and opinions. Now the 
Lord's power was so mighty upon me and so strong in 
me that I could not hold, but was made to cry out, ' Oh 
no, it is not the Scriptures; it is the Spirit.'" This was 



GEORGE FOX AND HIS JOURNAL. 



4 1 



hte seed of a great religious revolution. As a great 
writer has expressed it: "The Bible enfranchises only 
those to whom it is sent; Christianity those only to whom 
it is made known; the creed of a sect those only within 
its narrow pale. But George Fox, resting his system on 
the Inner Light, redeems the race." On the hills of 
Yorkshire he had a vision of the great work of God in 
the earth, seeing the people thick as motes in the sunbeam 
that should be brought home to the Lord, that there 
might be but one Shepherd and one sheep-fold in all the 
earth. Possessed with such enthusiasm, no wonder that 
neither raging priest nor stoning populace could daunt 
him ! On he went in his divinely-appointed mission, and 
as he rode "the seed of the Lord sparkled about him 
like innumerable sparks of fire." The clergy, who at 
first provoked discussion with him, soon learned to shun 
the unequal encounter; they trembled and went away at 
his approach, and "it was a dreadful thing unto them 
when they were told that the man with leather breeches 
was come. " Through fiery trials, the sect that he founded 
(I term it a sect, though a creedless one) grew and pros- 
pered and multiplied into thousands and tens of thousands. 
In fact as many as 4,000 of them were at one time in 
prison. At last, a part found a home in the Xew World, 
and fair Pennsylvania offered a peaceful refuge not only 
to themselves, but under their laws to the persecuted of 
every sect, where every man was secured the right to 
worship God according to the dictates of his own con- 
science. 



THE QUAKER WEDDING. 



No wedding bells rang out in air, 
No strains of music blended, 

No orange blossoms decked her hair, 
Nor bridal veil descended: 

The bridegroom to the bride gave naught 

Of symbol ring or token, 
No rite was with tradition fraught, 

No churchly vows were spoken. 

With all that ritual imparts, 

Performed with pomp and splendor, 
No tie unites two loving hearts 

Like simple words and tender. 

It needs not old cathedral rare, 
Nor tones of organ pealing, 

To sanctify the pledge they share, 
Or wake the soul's deep feeling. 

So "in the presence of the Lord" 
And loving friends around them, 

Their own lips spoke each solemn word 
That, life to life, hath bound them ! 



42 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



As the era of Phidias was the golden age of Sculpture; 
as the period of the Renaissance comprehended the 
palmy days of Painting; as the age of Elizabeth signal- 
izes ever the glory of the Drama; as the first half of the 
nineteenth century stands eminently prolific in Poetry; 
so the present, its latter half, is distinctively the era of 
the Novel. 

If the harvests of the Imagination in Literature have 
heretofore been garnered from the fields of Song, either 
we are now suffering the reaction and rest of nature in a 
period of dearth and famine, or else, while those fields 
of Poesy lie fallow for a season, the reapers and the 
wagons have been diverted to other fertile plains — the 
fair, broad acres of Romance. 

Is it a question of alternate seven years of famine 
following closely the seven years of plenty, or, more 
haply, a matter of rotation of crops in literary agriculture? 
This is a question I still leave with the reader for final 
determination, simply expressing, in passing, my humble 
opinion that Imagination and Fancy are yet neither dead 
nor sleeping, but daily walking abroad among the children 
of men. 

Nothing is more wonderful than the rapid development 
in this age of the idea of the Novel — its scope and its 
responsibilities. Formerly its function was but to amuse 
and entertain. The tales of fiction were like those of 

43 



44 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



the Arabian Nights or the Decameron — recounted by 
some smiling, light-hearted, light-tongued Scheherezade 
or Boccacio — the careless "singer of an empty day." 

Now its province has been immensely extended. One 
outlying principality after another has been annexed, 
until it has come to embrace pretty much all the literary 
kingdom, and with this idea of its increased scope and 
power, comes that also of its added duties and responsi- 
bilities. Good fiction "is profitable for instruction, for 
reproof, for doctrine," and, like the "perfect woman" of 
Wordsworth, it should be 

i; Nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort and command." 

With all the burning questions of Biology, Psychology 
and Theology pressing close upon us now in our daily 
lives, we need all the added illumination that the side- 
lights of Literature can throw upon them; hence we are 
inclined to welcome the tendency of jurists and divines 
to gather texts for decisions and sermons from the 
master-pages of fiction. 

The Study of Fiction has, indeed, become of such 
prime importance that, together with the study of 
"Shakespeare and the Musical-Glasses," Fluxions, the 
Binomial Theorem, the "Fourth Dimension" and Italian 
Renaissance, it should be included in the Curriculum of 
all our Public Schools. In making this suggestion, I by 
no means blink the recognized fact that the schedule of 
studies pursued by our youth is already so extensive as 
seriously to overcrowd their time and capacities. In 
order, therefore, to make room for these modern and 
more important studies, I would lop off several of the old- 
fashioned and nearly obsolete ones, beginning with "the 
three R's ! " 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



45 



It was said by Shakespeare — or the other fellow — that 
"all mankind loves a lover." And somebody else has 
remarked that no novel or romance is complete that does 
not embrace the subject of love. We are then enabled 
to assert that all mankind loves a good story. It is pretty 
safe to assume this. The taste for a good story, together 
with that for a good dinner, is, perhaps, more nearly 
universal than any other. ."We may live without poetry, 
music or art" — in fact, a great many people do get along 
without any of these very passably indeed — but this age 
is pre-eminently one of story-writing and of story-reading 
enjoyment. Some one has asserted that even judges 
of the highest courts recreate themselves by reading 
romances, and a judge of the United States District 
Court in Kansas recently showed his familiarity with one 
romance at least by citing from the strange case of — "Dr. 
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." . The taste for and the habit of 
story-reading is spreading to be almost universal. The 
leaves of the paper novel are shed abroad far thicker 
than the "leaves of Vallambrosa;" they fall alike "on the 
just and the unjust. " The cabinet officer, and the elevator 
boy who may one day rise to the top story (one story 
beyond the high official) and come to own a "cabinet" 
of his own — both of these alike indulge in the relaxations 
of romance. The library of every household swarms 
with the Household Library. When we go out we find 
that the Franklin Square lays over every little park in 
city or town, whilst The Seaside pursues us through every 
summer resort, and follows us into the fastnesses of the 
mountains. 

And conversely, while directly in obedience to the law 
of demand and supply, about everybody who does not 
read novels (except, perhaps, the critic) has gone to 



4 6 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



writing them. No literary reputation is complete now-a- 
days unless it has been topped out with a romance. All 
the poets and poetesses finally abandon their verse, 
proceed to join the less tuneful choir, and swell a chorus 
not their own. 

Possibly romance pays the best. Undoubtedly it pays 
the best. "A rose by any other name would smell as 
sweet," but had the two Roes-es — he of the Hudson, and 
he, the smartly imitative Chicago namesake — got them- 
selves planted in the gardens of poesy, instead of realistic 
romance, they might long ago have wilted on their stems, 
lacking all sweet savor of interest to reader or publisher. 
All the authors are turning to the novel. Even Amelie 
Rives Chanler has tried her hand at it. Senator Ingalls 
has been about it for a long time, but unfortunately — or 
fortunately — for the world and his fame, the manuscript, 
like the first of Carlyle's " French Revolution," went up 
in the flames. The luckless man who writes — or buys — 
a poem now-a-days may come to find himself in the 
category of the doubting lady I met in a picture store the 
other day. She had had thoughts of buying an etching, 
but she was afraid they would "go out ! " 

The novel is fast assuming, like Lord Bacon, to take 
all knowledge for its province. If a man wishes to 
propound a new fact or a new theory, if he has explored 
a new continent or a new province of thought, he hastens 
to exhibit it to the world, thinly disguised, it may be, 
under the veil of fiction. 

If his style be passably attractive, he wins a hearing 

for himself and his* pet, and an audience of readers 

probably ten times as great as if he had addressed himself 

in the old-fashioned method, to his special clientele. 

. The youth, at least, of this country, have hitherto 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTIOX. 



47 



learned far more about the interior of the "Dark Conti- 
nent" from the pages of Thomas W. Knox, (in "The Boy 
Travellers,") than from the books of Livingstone and 
Stanley, while, of maturer minds, hundreds to one prefer 
to read "-Robert Elsmere and "John Ward," to tracts 
on "Miracle," or ••Future Punishment." Charles 
Dickens assailed Yorkshire schools, imprisonment for 
debt, Chancery courts and Gradgrind Realism — while 
Charles Reade attacked the abuses of insane asylums, 
trades-unions and the prison "solitary system," from 
the vantage-ground of fiction, with correspondingly 
wonderful effect. 

Who would not choose to write the romantic story of 
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," and thereby arouse a whole 
nation to feeling and action, rather than to deliver tracts 
and facts to people of previous anti-slavery antecedents? 

A few years ago, William Dean Howells, himself our 
leading story writer, took it upon him to issue, as one 
having authority, a proclamation to all the inhabitants of 
the land of Fiction, or those who should come to sojourn 
therein. It comprehended a notable announcement, and 
was, at the same time, both a requiem and a paean of 
rejoicing. "Great Pan was dead" — the days of Romantic 
Fiction were over ! For many days it had, indeed, been 
nothing but a farrago of romantic bosh and hash; now, 
peace be to its hashes ! 

The past of fiction should be as "a tale that is told;" 
in fact its stories — the stories — had all been told. There 
were left no new plots and incidents — all had been 
exhausted. Now they were simply being rehashed over 
and over again by the story writers. Invention had 
reached its limit, Scott and Dickens and Thackeray, 



4 8 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



and all their followers were obsolete or obsolescent. It 
was time for a new dispensation; there was a New 
Dispensation, that of wholesome Realism, and Henry 
James was its prophet — of whom, he, Howells, was proud 
to enrol himself as the first disciple ! 

This pronunciamento was duly followed, from time to 
time, by others from his pen, elaborating and fortifying 
his theory, and ably expounding the gospel of Realism. 
Also he began to cast his nets around in the deep and 
shallow waters of Literature, and successfully and suc- 
cessively to land several realistic fish of greater or less 
degree, some of whom proved literary leviathans in 
breadth, and others "very like a whale, indeed:" — Tur- 
genieff and Tolstoi, of Russia; Flaubert, of Paris; Valdez, 
of Spain; and E. W. Howe, of Atchison, Kansas. 

And the literary world was, for a time, very willing to 
give some credence to this new creed, and a patient 
hearing to its advocates. In fact, we had previously 
grown a little tired of the romantic school, since most of 
its great masters had passed away. Its second rate 
fellows scarce charmed us at all. They possessed not 
"the grand style. " What in their works was old, became 
too trite in their hands. They had exhausted most of 
the old-time plots and devices, and especially all the old 
life-saving apparatus, by means of which the hero rescues 
the heroine and gains her eternal gratitude and love. 
All such had become too frightfully familiar and worn to 
be serviceable any longer. On the other hand, their 
new tricks and spasms, their violent exaggerations, distor- 
tions and monstrosities were apt to be so wild and 
fantastic as to strain entirely too hard upon our imagina- 
tions. These writers had developed and educated a class 
of novel readers which is one of the special characteris- 



T WO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. ^ 

tics of the age, the habitual novel-reader. A class 
which loves stories for their sensationalism, and lives 
upon it, as an opium or hashish-eater lives upon his drug 
and its excitement, having lost relish for anything more 
wholesome and nutritious. 

This class, which still abounds in every community 
where there is a circulating library or a "news-stand," 
is constrained by the force of habit and the condition of 
mind induced by such reading, to rush pell-mell through 
one story after another, never halting to enjoy a charm 
of style or happy touch of characterization, but always in 
pursuit of incident, plot and sensation. Their minds, in 
time, acquire a sieve-like property that lets every story 
through, in turn, as fast as poured in. 

But even the "circulating-library-fiend" was inclined 
to welcome something new. In fact, like the Athenians 
of old, they are always looking for some new thing. For 
awhile, everybody took their regular instalments of 
Howells, James, et id omne genus, the New School of 
Fiction, with zeal and apparent zest. Under the stimulus 
of the New Idea, wonderful results were reached, espe- 
cially in the literary development of its two great 
exemplars. The world had long admired the early work 
of these brilliant writers; the purity of style, the wealth 
of observation, the keenness of analysis. In Howells, 
especially, one experienced a charm of freshness and 
originality, a delicacy and nicety of touch, united with a 
geniality of feeling, which was extremely fascinating. 
Beginning with his earlier sketches, particularly "Their 
Wedding Journey," and its continuation, "A Chance 
Acquaintance," this culminated in the "Lady of the 
Aroostook," a story which, simply and delicately told, 
without making any pretence of breadth of treatment, 

5 



5o 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



and exhibiting but few characters, yet discriminated them 
so finely and handled them all so admirably as to give 
fair promise of the highest literary eminence for the 
writer, in the near future. Has that promise been fulfilled ? 
Let the descending curve that has led so swiftly adown 
the slope to the dreary flats of "Annie Kilburn" afford 
the answer ! For Henry James, his " Bostonians" settled 
the question some years ago — and his partial struggles 
into pseudo-sensationalism of late will scarce retrieve 
him. If we should venture to render the historical verdict, 
it would be "Killed by a Theory," the theory that Realism 
in Literature is the only supreme good. Too much exclu- 
sive holding up a looking-glass before a very indifferent 
and common-place Nature ! 

— And the Romantic Fiction that should have been 
entombed by these men was soon on its feet again, 
livelier than ever ! 

A new crop of romantic story-tellers has sprung up 
like Jonah's gourd, and gained already a multitude of 
readers and lovers — "Called Back" Conway, "Strange 
Case" Stevenson, and that haggardest of blood-thirsty, 
story-telling fiends, Rider Haggard. Their recent popu- 
larity sprang into such immense proportions, as only to 
be accounted for, possibly, as a reactionary protest 
against the extreme and exclusive realism which had 
prevailed before. 

But this later school of romantics is itself in turn too 
violent in force and too extreme in direction, and as such 
cannot long endure. In fact, just at present, it might 
seem as if we had entered a notable period of psycho- 
theologic fiction. 

~^' *•' 5k >k ^' 5k 5k 5fe *k 

Since the above was written, Mr. Howells has published 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 5I 

a new story — "A Hazard of New Fortunes" — which, 
virile and inclusive in grasp and treatment, fulfills the 
promise of his earlier days, and places him conspicuously 
in the front rank of American writers. This exemplifies 
that in literature, as in metereology, an ascending curve 
may closely succeed one of descent, and regain all that 
had been lost thereby. 

In view of his increased breadth and vigor, we shall 
scarce complain, indeed, that in this most "modern 
instance," he has left the realistic restrictions of inherent 
probability so far behind him as to bring together unap- 
pointed, from remote parts of the city to a certain street- 
corner in upper Xew York, no less than three of his 
principal characters, at the precise moment which 
awaited a "striking." denouement! Nor even that in 
another recent story, he should employ a literal tour de 
force of the most violent character, to relieve himself at 
once of his hero and a dilemma ! 

We cordially accept William Dean Howells as our 
Dean of Fiction in the University of Literature — but 
what especially pleases us in him, of late, is that he is so 
delightfully romantic. Not alone in his sentiment — he 
was often deliciously romantic in that before — but lately, 
in his incident as well ! 

if;:*::};****** 

A cursory examination of a few of the noted masters 
of fiction in the past generation may not be out of place, 
but must be very briefly taken. What part, conscious 
or unconscious, did this question of realism or romance 
have in the production of fiction in that era ? 

Evidently the drift of Sir Walter Scott's genius in 
fiction was essentially romantic. While he naturally 
sought epochs in history wherein the spirit of the time 



- 2 TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 

was congenially of that order — such as the era of the 
Crusades — or, at least, so far remote in the past as to 
allow full license to the imagination in treating them as 
suc h — as for instance, the Feudal ages — yet even when 
he lays his scenes in periods as nearly modern as those 
included in the last century, the Great Wizard is able to 
cast such a glamor of romance over prosaic times and 
humble events as to make them fairly glow in the magic 
of fancy — "the light that never was on sea or land." And 
yet, Scott has so deftly interwoven the warp and woof of 
fact and fiction, matched with the bright colors he could 
so skilfully impart; has gathered from old chronicle 
and legend so much that, whether true or not, bears the 
verisimilitude of truth, that his romances seem all infused 
with the hues of history, and if not "the very age and 
body of the time, its form and pressure," to be, at least, 
something so much finer, that we are more than willing 
to accept them in preference. While he, no doubt, 
illumines with a factitious, glow some of the dark pages 
of feudalism, yet many of his incidents of story are no 
more essentially romantic, after all, than those chronicled 
by Princess Anna Commena or Philippe de Comines. 

But it is not alone when "the pulse of life," in his 
magic creations, is "beating to heroic measure" that 
Walter Scott is truly great. When he portrays the 
fortunes and vicissitudes of that humble family of St. 
Leonard's Crags, the many homely touches of realism 
naturally incident to the daily life of Jeanie Deans, the 
cow-feeder's daughter, serve as a magnificent foil and 
charming back-ground to the noble purpose that animates 
her, and bring out all the more vividly, the glory of her 
achievement. 

' * The Heart of Mid-Lothian " is a conspicuous example 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



53 



of what I consider the higher order of fiction — that in 
which fact and fancy, realism and romanticism mingle 
and harmoniously blend. If I were asked to cite a 
modern example of this felicitous combination, perchance 
the first one that would rise to mind would be " Lorna 
Doone," the single notable story that has yet been written 
by R. D. Blackmore. 

It is to this commingling of the two — though so often 
impaired in happy effect, by trick and exaggeration, by 
crudities and quiddities of characterization and vicious 
mannerisms of style — that may be attributed, as I deem, 
the popularity of Charles Dickens as a novelist. It 
would be difficult to tell whether he is most Idealist or 
Realist. No writer was ever more of the latter in his 
close observation and reproduction of unusual and odd 
types of character, but in sentiment and direction he was 
always thoroughly romantic. Had I time, I would gladly 
go into this farther, by way of illustration, but the 
numberless examples which might be adduced in proof 
will readily occur to all familiar with his writings. 

Thackeray was another great master; great in style and 
great in matter, because equally at home in either school 
of fiction — the two not exemplified so often by being 
intimately blended in the same novel, as in the pages of 
his great cotemporary. To give typical instances, I 
would cite "Vanity Fair" as one of the most character- 
istic examples of a realistic novel ever written, with 
" Henry Esmond" and " The Newcomes, " leaning closely 
to the romantic school. In all fiction where is there 
portrayed a finer character than Colonel Thomas New- 
come — so ideally grand and yet so essentially human in 
his imperfections ! 

In the same connection, let me revert again to Dickens, 



54 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



to cite the "Tale of Two Cities," as evincing most 
assured power as well as strength of style of any of his 
romantic tendencies, with "David Copperfield," as, 
perhaps, his finest union of the two schools — the realistic 
and romantic. 

Possibly the greatest name in purely romantic fiction, 
of the last generation, is that of Victor Hugo. 

In the old-time deadly conflict, between classicism and 
romanticism in the French drama, his was the embod- 
iment of the latter idea, and his the early triumph 
as its representative champion. Thenceforward, the 
contemner of the "Third Napoleon" was consistently of 
this school of literature. In Poetry, in Fiction, and in 
Fact (that is, as nearly as the great Frenchman ever 
touched an actual, prosaic fact) Victor Hugo was a 
Romanticist. In spite of its crying — and shrieking — 
defects of style, bordering often close upon the hysterical, 
"Les Miserables" remains one of the most wonderful 
products of imaginative genius. 

Charles Reade probably considered himself a realist of 
the first water, and indeed his style was eminently such, 
being arid in the extreme. His ideal of construction was 
also the acme of realism; it being his habit to accumulate 
first a mass of raw material, clippings from newspapers, 
and other sources, of such reported facts as struck him 
as available for novelistic purposes, especially if they 
bore on some pet theory which he desired to exemplify. 
These he would arrange in scrap-books on some system 
of Index Rerum. He had a veritable "Gradgrind" 
penchant for facts, and he had likewise a genius for 
utilizing them as a statistician does figures, so that they 
would tell a marvellous story — any kind of a story he 
wished. When this process of coloring and distorting 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



55 



the facts begins, he changes, chameleon-like, into the 
Romanticist, pure and simple. His characters, too, 
always act on the romantic plan, instead of that of 
natural development. His women, especially, can always 
be relied upon to do just the thing they logically should 
not; it being one of Reade's pet theories that all women 
are prone to act "like Paddy's pig," and that, in conse- 
quence, whenever you want them to go to Bantry you 
must pretend they are on the way to Cork. 

Both Reade and Wilkie Collins, however, are sufficient 
refutations of Howells' theory, that "the stories have all 
been told;" unless, indeed, he should put in the saving 
plea that such were among the rush of creditors who 
drew out the last coin, and left the bank of invention 
bursted. 

Both of these kept up telling interesting stories to the 
last, and Collins had always a big fund of incident, though 
his style, like that of the dictionary, may seem at times 
"a trine jerky." 

The mention of Charles Reade's scrap-books reminds 
one of Hawthorne's "Note-books," published after his 
death, and very unwisely, perhaps, for his best fame. 
We should have preferred to imagine those wonderful 
romances as projected, lava-like, from, the surging and 
overflowing crater of a passionate imagination fused and 
glowing at white heat, for they seem veritable products 
of secret seething recesses of heart and mind. Instead 
of this, the note-books take us into the romancer's larder 
and kitchen, where the apples, raisins and meat are being 
accumulated and chopped, and where the suet is being 
tried out and the brandy decanted; all of which, skilfully 
compounded and cooked up, should duly eventuate in the 
mince-pie of romance, that whilom we had found so 
toothsome. 



56 TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 

In his elaboration of detail — often wonderfully minute, 
sometimes apparently trivial, but all tending to heighten- 
ing of artistic effect — Hawthorne is a Realist. In his 
choice of out-of-the-way characters and unusual aspects 
of life, and their development into startling and tragic 
events, he is a Romanticist — but chiefly, in his study of 
the mysterious workings of mind, especially of the morbid 
and abnormal sort, he is a Psychologist. While a 
predominance in importance may be granted to the latter 
function, it is probably owing to the masterly blending 
of all these characteristics that we cede him high rank in 
literature. 

Eminent in differing departments of fiction, striking its 
leading chords of realism, romanticism or idealism to 
produce some of their finest tones at will, the psycholo- 
gist in George Eliot broadened out at last into the 
philosopher, whose subtle and profound reflections make 
us sometimes oblivious of the fact that it is a novel, a 
work of the imagination, that we are perusing. And 
yet, as the gifted writer carries us along with her in these 
excursions into the realms of deep thought, we seem to 
leave behind that ideal country wherein we first journeyed, 
and our guide loses somewhat of the artist in taking on 
so much of the metaphysician. For this reason, the 
earlier "Adam Bede" and "Felix Holt," possessing more 
romantic and human interest and using more direct 
story-telling power, strike me as altogether artistically 
finer than her later works. 

To leave the high table-lands which the mind of 
George Eliot inhabited, and come down to the actual 
misty headlands of the Atlantic and the wild shores of 
the Hebrides, William Black is one of the most agreeable 
and popular novelists of to-day of the romantic school; 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



57 



writing always with graceful pen "dipped in the hues of 
color" and of fancy — 

" Tingeing the sober twilight of the present 
With coloring of romance." 

But the atmosphere which should reflect the glow and 
the color is apt sometimes to become rather attenuated, 
being palpably evoked more through force of determina- 
tion of the writer than the power of assured imaginative 
genius. 

On the other hand, imagination itself, though a kingly 
power and prerogative in a romantic era, may scarce be 
safely substituted in picturing those types of a modern 
age wherein the correct results of the faithful observation 
of realism are imperatively required. As instances of 
imaginative pseudo-realism, one might cite Cooper's 
Indians and his Leather-stocking hero; Bret Harte's Cali- 
fornia miners; Cable's Acadians and Creoles, and William 
Hardy's Shakesperian rustics of to-day. These are all 
interesting as mental projections of genius— but they fail 
as veritable human beings. 

******** 

Do novels of the Romantic school, as claimed by Mr. 
Howells, uniformly give us false views of life, influencing 
us to illogical, impractical and harmful course of action ? 
If so, his indictment of the school has great force. 
Possibly this objection may properly lie to much of the 
sensational literature of the day. It is hurtful to the 
minds alike of youth and children of a larger growth. 
But the assertion that all romantic literature is injurious 
is as untenable as might be the converse proposition that 
all realistic writing is beneficial — or that a chess-player's 
mind is so strengthened and disciplined by his pursuit 
that he may never make a false move in the game of life ! 



5» 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



If nothing but realism be proper food for mind or soul, if 
imagination and fancy are to be wholly ruled out, let us 
drop professed fiction and rely solely on the daily news- 
paper for our mental nourishment. That is realistic 
enough in all conscience, and imaginative enough also, 
perhaps, during political campaigns. I would, however, 
maintain that romantic fiction of a high order may be 
most serviceable to us — even toward our apprehending 
life in many of its important relations. 

Oculists tell us, and experience confirms it, that it is 
better for us to have two eyes, and use them — even 
though one or both may be imperfect — than to rely 
on one alone, however complete its visual capacity. 
Somehow in the correlation of use, the faultiness of 
either will be measurably rectified, and we will have truer 
apprehension of the proper relations of visible objects. 

In like manner, it will be a gain to us to look at life 
through the window that the novelist opens to us, as well 
as through that of our every-day experience. It is well 
for us to contemplate the differing aspects of our existence; 
the usual and the unusual; the every-day and the gala- 
day; the near and the far. So shall we gain a truer 
vision, a broader outlook, a fuller comprehension of that 
complex landscape of the soul which we call human life. 

William C. Gannett, in that most helpful of all "prac- 
tical" sermons, "Blessed be Drudgery," has enjoined 
upon us this lesson, as the summing of the whole philos- 
ophy of contentment: "If you cannot realize your ideals, 
then idealize your reals ! " This is what the best novels — 
the combination of the romantic and realistic — may help 

us to do: to "idealize our reals." 

******** 

In one of his earlier poems, Bret Harte pictures to us 



TWO SCHOOLS OF FICTION. 



59 



a California mining camp on the slopes of the Sierras, in 

the early days of the excitement and thirst for gold. 

Weary, worn and haggard from the toils and anxieties of 

the fierce pursuit, one night, around their camp fire, 

they listened to a younger member of the party, who 

produced from "his pack's scant treasure," a "hoarded 

volume" of Charles Dickens — the Story of Little Nell: 

' ; Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy— for the reader 
Was youngest of them ail- 
But as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
A silence seemed to fall ; 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray, — 
While the whole camp, with Nell — on English meadows, 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so— in mountain solitudes,— o'ertaken, 

As by some spell divine. 
Their cares dropped from them— like the needles shaken. 

From out the gusty pine." 

Such is the spell of the Imagination, and such the 
compensations and solaces it sometimes bestows on the 
rudest and hardest of lives. What realist will dare 
deprive us o them all ! 



TWO TRAVELERS OF SUCH A CAST. 



The Psychologist and the Realist of literature some- 
times walk its great highways, side by side. They prefer 
to travel its dusty high road, because that is lined with the 
abodes of human life and crowded by its great throngs — 
and it is life, with its experiences, that is the object of 
their pursuit. It is that alone which is worth their study 
and admiration. For them, there is neither pleasure nor 
profit, neither poetry nor worthy prose in nature, uncon- 
nected directly with some individual, or type of the 
species Man. For them there is no "pleasure in the 
pathless woods;" there is no "rapture on the lonely 
shore;" there can be no "society where none intrudes, 
by the deep sea" — nor "music in its roar." In fact, it 
may well be doubted whether, in absence of human ears, 
there can exist any "roar" at all ! 

What a blunder in fact, and how utterly unpoetic in 

idea, those lines of Gray : 

" Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear." 

How could they bear them, even in poetic fancy, so 

long as the caves are "unfathomed" by man? To these 

two confreres, there is no landscape or marine, however 

full of beauty or of grandeur; of mystery, of sentiment 

or of subtle suggestiveness; no canvas of Claude, of 

Rousseau or Corot, that the foolish world of fancy had 

been wont to term "poetic" — unless there haply be a 

piece of ". genre" painted as planted in the fore-ground. 

60 



TWO TRAVELERS OF SUCH A CAST. 6l 

Never in sublimest poetic fancy could they hear the 
"morning stars sing together for joy" — unless they, or 
some prototype of theirs, should be on hand, with sharp 
ears to hear, and a sharp pencil to take down the notes ! 

With one common aim, expressed by the phrase "to 
hold the mirror up to nature " — that Nature comprehended 
by the unit Man — these two travel together, along the 
highway for awhile, observing and noting the types as 
they pass them by. But the pace of the Realist is really 
the swifter, inasmuch as he is satisfied by catching the 
reflections of the looking-glass that he holds up, or the 
camera that he trains upon his victims. If he catch a 
fair and life-like image, which shall give representation 
of outward appearance, with all the characteristic attitude 
and gesture and individual action, the Realist is well 
content. Not so, for any length of time, the Psycholo- 
gist. His work goes far deeper and requires more time. 
He aims at complete analysis of the inner as well as outer 
self. He fain would dissect the "subject" completely, 
lay bare every quivering nerve, and turn the compound- 
microscope of critical observation upon each corpuscle 
of blood and every fiber of the heart, detecting the nature 
and course of the life-current, and every hidden spring 
of action. This takes more time than realism has to 
give, but who can doubt that the results are more 
complete ! When the Master is through, the process has 
been most thorough, indeed ! You can turn the dry- 
bones — all that is left — over to the Scientist now, if you 
can possibly find one so wholly devoid of imagination 
that he cares for nothing but to articulate skeletons. 
But be chary of terming this process of the anatomization 
of humanity Poetry — or conceiving that there is much 
poetry in it, much less of romance ! When you have got 



62 TWO TRAVELERS OF SUCH A CAST. 

at the heart of all mystery in man's soul — and plucked 
all the mystery out of it — the poetry vanished just 
before; for without mystery, imaginative genius has no 
atmosphere to work in, and perishes like the animal in 
an exhausted receiver. 

There are some almost intangible essences constituting 
the boqiiet of a fine old wine, that may apparently be 
analyzed, but not synthetized. Possibly there is some 
subtle and evanescent element, more ethereal than the 
ethers themselves, that exhales and escapes in the process 
of analysis; for when the chemist of liquor manufacture 
comes to combine his known alcohol and water, his sugar 
and gum, his acids and salts, his oenanthic, acetic and 
other ethers, in due proportion — the resultant liquor is 
something flat, insipid and wholly distasteful to the refined 
palate. 

So with poetry; it is almost impossible to define it, for 
its very essence is liable to escape in the attempt to 
describe and circumscribe it. Rather than any substan- 
tive thing, it is a pervasive spirit that can be apprehended 
by our finer sense but scarce bottled up in any dictionary, 
or parcelled out in definite proportions by any exclusive 
critic. The poetry of synthesis — of rule and measure — 
somehow always fails, at the last, to include some of those 
vital elements which enter into its most ethereal composi- 
tion. 

The connoisseur in wines will readily detect the spuri- 
ous wine of combination, and pronounce it "dish-water." 
He will discriminate nicely between this brand and that, 
and all the different vintages of each; he will have his 
own especial choice in brand and vintage, as each 
connoisseur may; he will invariably reject wholly the 



TWO TRAVELERS OF SUCH A CAST. 63 

spurious article — but he will be very chary of claiming 
that wine is the product of any especial vineyard or soil, 
or clime. 

And so, those of us who are neither critics nor con- 
noisseurs, may still plead to have our liberty of choice 
left to us — fallible and faulty though our taste may be. 
What, ho! ye sound authorities in literature, "because 
ye are virtuous shall we have no more cakes and ale" — 
the toothsome cakes of Romantic Fiction — and the 
inspiring ale of Objective Poetry! "Yes," retorts our 
prohibitive Psychologist, "provided you take off the 
froth and take out the alcohol from your ale ! " Vainly 
we protest that it is just the sparkle and the body to the 
ale that refreshes us. "No ! " cries the Tetotal Realist, 
"cakes are fantastic food; there's no substance or 
nourishment in them. Meat is the only proper food for 
man!" And both shout in chorus: "Man is the only 
fact or factor in creation worth considering — and with 
water to drink and meat to eat, man is all right — and with 
a looking-glass to hold up to man and reflect his very 
form and pressure, literature is all right ! " 

Now far be it from this writer to controvert such theory, 
much less propound any theory of his own, save this 
one, simple and hard I think to refute, that in Literature 
anything is good that is first-rate ! For the novel — the 
question is not, after all, to what school does it belong? 
Possibly the more schools it embraces the better, if all 
are properly composed and artistically disposed; if the 
picture have faithful realism in the near foreground, 
pleasing romance in the middle distance, and charming 
touches of idealism in the vanishing perspective — with 
the magic glow of genius irradiating the whole landscape ! 
Provided the work is noble in design and artistic in 



64 TWO TRAVELERS OF SUCH A CAST. 

execution, the main question follows: "Is it helpful?" 
Will it broaden the range of our sympathies? Will it 
give us a truer outlook ! Will it teach us somewhat more 
of the nature of human relations and actions — the 
mysteries of human life ? 

But after all, for the mass of readers and with the 
mass of novels, their chief function must be to entertain, 
to divert, to soothe. How often the otherwise weary 
hours of pain are shortened, the pain itself somewhat 
assuaged, or at least for the time forgotten, by the 
perusal of a good work of fiction ! How the mind, that 
had been drawn to its utmost tension, has been healthily 
relaxed through the kindly influence of the fascinating 
page ! By the way, what a compliment we think to pay 
to some work of history, of travel, of science even, 
happily treated, when we say, "it is as fascinating as a 
romance ! " 

For all of us fast slipping over that imperceptible 
boundary between middle-life and old age, whether care- 
worn men of affairs, or weary and exhausted students — 
with nerves not quite so equable, nor spirits so buoyant 
as of old — when we come home at evening, fretted, 
troubled, well-nigh overburdened with the worrying 
realisms of life, and needing relaxation and enjoyment, 
we go into our library for a book that shall distract our 
minds and lead us into another and pleasanter realm of 
thought: we will take down — not "one of the grand old 
masters," not any of "the bards sublime" but — a good 
novel ! Then — 

' ' The night shall he full of music, 

And the cares that infest the day- 
Shall fold up their tents like the Arabs, 
And silently steal away." 



THE REALIST IN ART. 



Were we to credit the current claims put forth, we 
might suppose the taste for music, and that for pictures 
to be well nigh universal. In Art, everybody professes to 
love the one and admire the other. Vet Shakespeare 
seems to have had some ideal monster in mental projec- 
tion, who, untouched "by concord of sweet sounds," was 
only "fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils," and occa- 
sionally, some extremely candid individual confesses that 
to him there are no "odds in pictures." It may be 
admitted, I think, that there are different degrees of 
liking for art, with only a limited few aspirants whose 
liking is sufficiently a matter of true taste and ardent 
feeling to be justly ranked as loving. 

The person who can contentedly pass through a gallery 
of masterpieces of art, giving just five minutes to the 
Sistine Madonna, three each t£> Correggio's Holy Night, 
Carlo Dolci's Saint Cecilia and Battoni's Magdalen, 
two to the Rembrandts, and an average of the same 
time to each of the twenty-one cabinet galleries; thus 
doing the whole first floor of the Dresden gallery in one 
hour; then hurry off to devote equal time and attention 
to the Grime Gewcelbe — this traveller can fitly be handed 
over to the cruel tender mercies of the "personally 
conducted," without any fear that his ardent longings 
for art may suffer any conflict of torn emotions, "the 
pangs of despised love," or "the sickness of hope 
deferred." 



66 THE REALIST IN ART. 

The appreciation of such a man for art is of a very 
low grade. He views pictures chiefly from idle curiosity, 
or because he has heard it is considered the proper thing 
to do. With another class, the sentiment is far above 
this, and yet, it may be doubted whether their enjoyment 
of paintings is not the same as it so frequently proves in 
music, chiefly a matter of association. It is often the 
words of a song, the beautiful ideas they express or 
suggest, that appeal to us, rather than the music itself, 
though, through the union with such words, the music 
may come to be loved thereafter — calling up as it does 
by the subtle suggestion of association, the words that 
had moved us before; — the two having become intimately 
blended in our minds through that happy marriage of 
"perfect music wed to noble words." 

Many old ballads possess this union in such degree 
that it is difficult to analyse closely and say wherein the 
chiefest charm consists. Mark the great singers on their 
encores — how naturally they strike the ballad when they 
wish to please the cultured and the uncultivated ear 
alike! Is it the music of them — or "that touch of 
nature which makes the whole world kin" in the words — 
which gives their grand success. 

So in painting. How often it is the story told by the 
picture that really arrests and charms the average 
beholder, rather than the depth of tone and harmony of 
color in the picture itself! An old-time joker used to 
recoup himself whenever any of his funny stories "missed 
fire," by immediately certifying them to his obtuse audi- 
tory as absolute fact in every particular ! In like manner 
you can often awaken interest in the mind of a realist 
when the picture fails to enlist his attention on the score 
of Art. If it is, for instance, an ideal girl's face — one of 



THE HE A LIST IN ART. 



6 7 



Jacquet's, opulent in sensuous beauty, or Greuze's in 
"spirituelle" grace — tell him it is a portrait of Nilsson, 
or of a princess of the English royal family ! If this 
does not answer, the only resource is to enlarge upon the 
gilding of the frame. 

Engraving or etching may "tell the story" about as 
faithfully and successfully— and, in fact, these are enjoyed 
by many fully as well as the finest pieces of color. This 
especially applies also to a large class who have an 
almost purely intellectual appreciation of Art. 

For the foregoing reason, a landscape which is a 
faithful transcript of an actual scene will be far more 
attractive to many than any ideal one, however full that 
might be of the higher charms of imagination and of 
feeling. A "sketch from nature" almost invariably 
"draws" with this class of minds if, indeed, it be not too 
plainly '.'out of drawing." However indifferent they 
may have been to it as a work of art, they become inter- 
ested in it as an actual scene — particularly if it represents 
one they may have themselves beheld. 

These people are Realists. They enjoy photographs 
of people and places— especially of people and places 
that they have seen or read about — and cannot compre- 
hend why the photograph of a painting, skilfully colored 
up to imitate the original, is not as good as the original 
itself. By the constitution of their minds, there is no 
good reason, outside of its repute and religious association, 
why Murillo's "Immaculate Conception" — an ideal 
picture of the Virgin whom they have not seen — should 
interest them half so much as a good photograph of 
some loved relative or friend. 

English artists, as a school, are famed for their devo- 
tion to the above idea. Their pictures must all "tell a 



68 THE REALIST IN ART. 

story;" that is, represent something that either is, or 
purports to be, real in its essence — happening or that 
might happen — something in either actual life, history or 
literature. The artists of this nation paint for a. practical 
people, and know what will sell in their market. We 
freely admit that their stories are usually pure, and often 
infused with a pleasant or touching sentiment. The 
Royal Academy catalogues show a large proportion of 
this kind of work, done very well, indeed. It is genre 
painting of a very refined character; comparing most 
favorably, in subject and sentiment, with that of the 
Dutch and Flemish schools of the seventeenth century, 
though far inferior in strength — as, indeed, it is in quality 
of drawing and brilliance of technia x ue — to that of the 
French realistic school of to-day. In moral tone the 
English artist of this type is immeasurably superior to his 
Gallic neighbor. Lacking, however, the finer impulse 
and sway of the imagination, the realistic school of all 
nations fails to attain and inhabit the higher realms of 
art. 

As a rule, we Americans, in common with the bulk of 
mankind, are realists and like realism in our pictures. 
If they fail to reproduce things just as they are in ordinary 
life, what are they good for? Pictures and statuary are 
representations — and if they do not represent things in 
their usual aspect and as they appear to our ordinary 
apprehension, what use have we for them? What's the 
use ? 

A poor dealer in merchandise in a certain Kansas town 
who had ventured to lay in for holiday trade, some store 
of bric-a-brac — what the Yankee travelled abroad called 
" articles of virtue and objects of bigotry" — was bored 



THE REALIST IN ART. 



6 9 



almost to verge of desperation by the invariable, persis- 
tent query propounded by every customer to whom he 
exhibited them: "What's the use of this?" "What's 
that for, anyway ? " He found that he could scarce hope 
to sell them unless he suggested practical uses for them; 
and so, rather than have all left on his hands, he was 
driven to inventing various applications for them, 
undreamed of by their designers ! 

He turned line art into a sell, 
•—And then he sold it very well." 

These people were Realists of the first water. Emerson 
spoke to their apprehension an unmeaning parable in his 

'• If eyes were made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being." 

Keats wrote for them in a tongue as unknown as 
Sanscrit or Choctaw when he penned, 

•• A thing of beauty is a joy forever. 
Its loveliness increases— it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing." 

This quotation, by the way, is from a book in my 
library, long ago appropriately bound in sheep by some 
Eastern realist publisher, who gathered three poets into 
one volume and lettered it 

"COLERIDGE, SHELLEY, ETC." 

Just think of the author of Endymion, and the Eve of 
St. Agnes, being labeled as Etcetera ! 

I have alluded to the fact that a large class, embracing 
many cultured people, find fully as much appreciative 
enjoyment in engravings, etchings and sketches in black 
and white as they do in the finest examples of color. 
Without derogating in the least from the artistic merit of 
work within this range— a scope which embraces, indeed, 



7o 



THE REALIST IN ART. 



some of the finest achievements in art- 1 — yet I would 
raise the query whether, in such cases, one element at 
least is not lacking in the mental constitution. In an 
aesthetic sense are they not to a greater or less degree 
color-blind? Whether this be so or no, it strikes me 
that, failing to appreciate the tones of color in a picture, 
they lose a great deal of that largess of sensuous joy 
which nature distributes often with such lavish hand. It 
is true, indeed, that the needle or the burin, "skilful and 
touched with passionate love of art," may intimate, to 
some extent, the gradations of those tones in their effects 
of light and shade; but surely those glowing or melting 
harmonies of color, which are the triumphs of a great 
painter, impart a beauty and a glory that no scheme of 
black and white combinations can ever successfully rival. 

Speculating on this matter, I have sometimes fancied 
that some men's minds are so constituted that they may 
be said to be "drawn in black and white." These are 
often great thinkers, great reasoners; cool, dispassionate, 
clear-sighted, illumined with the clear, white light of 
truth. They may become eminent jurists, illustrious 
scientists, wonderful logicians and metaphysicians, grand 
philosophers even; but hardly great orators, great novel- 
ists, great poets or great divines ! These should have the 
endowment of all the color that is in the universe. Like 
the first class, they may possess all that is best in 
Realism — but they should be Idealists beside. 

To return to our consideration of the realists, whose 
love for art we have dared to call in question; the writer, 
having ventured so far, is half inclined to go farther and 
commit the unpardonable sin of doubting whether, as a 
rule, they are really seized and possessed of any great 
admiration for nature herself ! 



THE REALIST IN ART. 



71 



Let us suggest that the love of landscape in nature and 
on canvas is apt to be reciprocal; that if we possess the 
former we shall naturally be drawn to the latter, when any- 
good examples are afforded us; while even from glowing 
effects in pictures we may be instructed to discern more 
in nature than we had dreamed of before. Browning 
has noted, in poetic phrase, that we see things when 
painted which we miss in reality, while Hamerton goes 
farther, and reminds us that we sometimes have livelier, 
warmer and kinder sympathies at the call of the imagina- 
tive artist than the real world usually awakens in us; the 
revelations of the sympathetic artist carrying us farther 
into the realm of the ideal than we could travel, unaided 
by his inspiration. 

We may first learn to love resplendent sunset effects 
from the painted ideal, but once having acquired their 
appreciation, we shall discover ten times as many in the 
evening sky as he who cares naught for pictures and to 
whom they are as to one who, "having eyes sees not." 

One summer evening, some years ago, a train load of 
excursionists — chiefly members of a Western Legislature, 
and their families — was approaching the city of Denver. 
When within some fifteen miles thereof, the engine collided 
with some cattle, and one poor cow became so badly 
tangled up with the wheels of the locomotive that the 
whole train was stopped. The delay was such that about 
all the passengers alighted. From this slope of the 
Plains, the great range of the Rockies was finely visible, 
and, at the moment, the view to the west chanced to be 
one of scenic effect rarely equalled in any land. The 
sun, curtained behind a bank of cloud lying just above 
the mountain line, sent forth shafts of light that, toned by 
the mists hanging between the ranges, suffused the peaks 



72 



THE HEAL18T IN ART. 



with the most delicate, the most ethereal and yet the 
most vivid roseate glow imaginable. Their forms shone 
forth sharply denned, covered with rich masses of trans- 
parent rose-color; while northward, Long's Peak mingled 
by imperceptible gradations with heavier cloud-banks 
behind, and the flanks of the whole range toned into 
darkest and intensest blue. 

Idealized and glorified thus by those two great painters, 
Sunlight and Air, the enchanted spectator could scarce 
realize that this wondrous ethereal vision was, indeed, 
that Titanic, primeval mass of giant mountains, the 
"Backbone of the Continent." With every deformity 
hidden, every harsh, rugged outline softened into flowing 
lines of grace, they might well have passed for that 
beautiful range of Carrara which the traveller sees rise 
before him in the plains of Tuscany — but with the white 
marble tinted as the rose — or for that vision of the 
Delectable Mountains which we beheld in our childhood 
through the imagination of grand old John Bunyan. 
Nature, fortunately, is not always realistic, but images 
herself to us oftentimes, robed in illusive diaphanous 
veils of atmosphere, or tinted with the thousand harmo- 
nies of color. 

— And all this shining glory of the western sky was 
beheld at the time by perhaps half a dozen of the train load! 
The eyes of the remainder might possibly have beheld 
something of it had they not been too busy regarding the 
mutilated dead cow, which had finally been dragged out 
upon the plain. In this contest, between the Real and 
the Ideal, the former commanded as usual, the sympathies 
of the great majority. 



FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 



However differing in our views as to its proper province 
to-day, we have little difficulty in agreeing that Art finds 
its origin in Realism. 

It is claimed by certain of the Evolution school that, 
in retracing the growth of the religious idea in man, they 
find its root in the grossest fetichism. In like manner, 
it may be admitted that art finds its beginning in the 
crudest form of realism. If the passion for pictorial 
representation be not inherent in the race, it certainly 
begins very early in the history of man. We can hardly 
trace him so far back but that we find some manifesta- 
tions of this faculty. As with the barbarous races of the 
present, so with prehistoric man; his traces and relics 
among the bone-caves show that, whether partly imagina- 
tive or wholly realistic, he essayed to carve on bones from 
which he may have stripped the raw flesh to appease his 
ravenous hunger, some semblance in outline of the savage 
beasts by which he was surrounded. If in no other 
way, he showed even then his superiority over the 
animals from which he had become differentiated, for 
man is the only one that ever makes pictures. In all 
the ages since, this faculty has been developing; crudest 
in the crudest and approximating the domain of art as he 
ascended in the scale of mental development. 

Whatever practical purposes it may have subserved in 
the outset (including the art of picture-writing, for 

73 



74 



FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 



instance,) the period has often arrived in the progress of 
its development when, as so supremely in ancient Greece, 
its realistic phase became largely subsidiary; the actual 
took on the mystic tinge of the imaginative and the 
ideal. Striving to find in itself a medium of expression, 
art advanced upon its interpretation of what was finest 
and best in nature by seeking an ideal type that might 
symbolize, if not express, an imagined perfection, grander 
and more beautiful than mortal man himself could exhibit. 

Comparing the art relics of Greece with those of other 
ancient nations, we can realize how far the idealistic 
conception of the Hellenes and their pursuit of art for 
art's sake had projected them beyond the era of crude 
products of realism in art that marked the highest stage 
of Egypt and Assyria. The conceptions of these peoples 
were largely realistic; even their imagination could soar 
no higher than the embodiment, in part at least, of the 
coarsely material forms around them; so for statues of 
their gods they constructed abominations in ugly combi- 
nations of beast and bird — winged bulls — their highest 
idealization of the material forces in nature. 

To begin with analogies from kindred arts, we might 
set forth that there is far more in Oratory than the 
command of rhetoric, with all its manifold figures, its 
sounding periods, and tricks of emphasis and gesture. 
The soul of that true eloquence which moves and inspires 
men until they are swayed out of themselves, includes 
something beyond all these, which can rather be felt than 
adequately defined. There is something in Poetry beyond 
"the chime and flow of words which move in measured 
file and metrical array." Music is not solely "a succes- 
sion of rhythmic vibrations and their pleasing effect upon 
the sonorous pulses of the ear." And so in the Fine 



FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 



75 



Arts. The highest art in Painting, in Sculpture, and 
in Architecture, embraces something far beyond mere 
representation, even of what is fine in nature. 

And, indeed, it is well to remember that nature herself, 
as some writer has fairly discriminated, "is not all love- 
liness, all grandeur, all magnificence by any means, any 
more than she is all beneficence." We contrast her 
perfections with her imperfections. Only a tithe of the 
scenes she presents are worthy of reproduction. Many 
of her creations are crude and commonplace; some of 
her aspects are even repulsive, while others of her ruder 
features she herself, in happy moods, idealizes. Then 
comes, indeed, the proper moment for the artist to 
transfer them to canvas ! And there are yet others 
which, possessing some grand capabilities of interpreta- 
tion, need all the idealization which is in the soul of man 
to conceive, the product of rich suggestions garnered up 
it may be from Nature herself, in past ecstatic moments. 
So the great painter, in sketching the present landscape, 
transfers to its features something far finer than appears 
to common eyes, imparting a grace and beauty born of 
inspiration and of memory — thus adding to all that is 
worthiest in the actual scene the grand suggestion of all 
that might have been. 

In like manner, the great artist in his creation of ideal 
characters imparts to the lineaments of the living model 
his conception of what is most lovely or tender, pathetic 
or strong — the expression of all the emotions or passions 
that "stir this mortal frame," as in turn he may wish to 
exhibit them. However closely approximating the 
painter's needs, the model is, after all, but a lay-figure, 
which the Master arrays with the vestures of his own 
royal 'imagination. Pictures that represent only the 



76 FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 

model fail entirely to excite our sympathy or admiration. 
They have no power to move us; "there is no soul in 
them," and "painted from model," is so palpable that 
it might as well be lettered across their face. The 
difference between painting of this class, and that wherein 
the true artist has succeeded in imprinting his highest 
ideals of men and women, "beaming with love, thrilling 
with tenderness, radiant with goodness, ardent with 
fidelity " — this difference is immense. 

Hamerton, in his "Imagination in Landscape Painting, " 
assigns a most important place in art to this faculty of 
the mind. Its exercise marks in great degree the vast 
superiority of Idealism over Realism. It is his theory, 
likewise, that in Painting as in Oratory, the chief element 
of the success of the master is his power to command 
our imaginative sympathy. This he claims as the real 
secret of influence, and he instances its power in painting, 
by the example of a picture by Normann, in the Salon 
of '85. 

It was of the Sognefiord in Norway — a salt-water loch, 
enclosed by precipitous mountains of bare granite, whose 
oppressive grandeur shuts out forever the distance and 
half the sky. In this inhospitable scene, entirely bare 
of trees or verdure, are a few wooden houses that suggest 
life, and the pathetic interest of the work lies in the 
sympathy we immediately feel for the inhabitants. How 
can human beings exist, says our imagination, in such a 
desolate solitude? The colony, however, is not entirely 
isolated — the artist has linked them to the world without 
by showing a little steamer making its way into the calm 
deep water, with a line of foam at its bows. The 
charm of the picture is its suggestiveness — like that of 
Boughton's "Return of the Mayflower," or his "Two 



FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 



77 



Farewells." Such pictures not only attract our attention, 
but hold it. We return to them again and again, drawn 
by their power of moving our sympathetic imagination. 

And yet some great reputations have been built up by 
a conscientious practice of Realism, and faithful repro- 
duction of models in conjunction with accessories and 
properties that smack of the theater rather than the 
domain of Art. That of Alma Tadema is, perhaps, a 
conspicuous example. His rehabilitations of customs and 
costumes of classic Greece and Rome, recognized as 
faithful in an historic and archaeologic sense, are, after 
all, dry and soullessly realistic in their representation; 
while the idyls of Sir Frederick Leighton, with ideal 
figures and scene whose exact type might not be found 
this side Arcady, are yet so instinct with true poetic 
feeling that they seem very near to the heart of that 
Nature which is of all times and seasons. 

Compare, too, the picturesque and statuesquely posed 
and strongly painted manikins of Gerome, Meissonier 
and all their coldly brilliant school, with the assured 
power and dignity of the figures in Couture's "Romans 
of the Decadence," and Carl Miiller's "Call of the 
Condemned;" with the whirlwind rush and strength of 
Detaille's and De Neuviile's battle-pieces, of Schreyer's 
Arabs, and Schelmonski's or Kowalski's Cossacks of the 
steppes ! Or better still, with the portrayal of honest, 
French-peasant life of Jules Breton or Francois Millet. 
All these are realistic in one sense, and on the better side 
of realism — their foundation in real life — but life instinct 
with the expression of feeling and emotion. Their 
personages are actual, living, breathing human beings — 
not actors simulating them beneath the curtain of a stage. 

In these — and especially with the works of the latter — 



78 FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 

there is something more than Realism. The brush of a 
great artist, the magic wand of imagination and of genius, 
has touched and vivified the dull clod of humanity, and 
the soul of the man shines forth from amid the clay of its 
ordinary surroundings. The life of the toiling hind is 
faithfully portrayed. It is, indeed, the peasant, in his 
rude home or pursuing his usual avocations, but — taking 
him at his humble best, his moments of earnest endeavor, 
of aspiration and of adoration — they infuse the picture 
with that glow of true sentiment and feeling which can 
dignify and exalt the homeliest aspects of life. 

Yet it is only fair to admit that certain realists, the 
pioneers of the school in French art, did a great work, a 
generation or so ago, in correcting the popular taste and 
breaking down a weak, false and conventional classicism. 
Such artists, for instance, as the historical painter Horace 
Vernet — clever, dashing and sensational. These swept 
away the old traditions, and gave opportunity for the 
cultivation of the most perfect technique that the world 
has ever seen. Considered solely as an art, without 
estimating its worth in the higher realms of Fine Art, 
painting, probably, was never brought to a greater perfec- 
tion than it attains in France to-day. 

Conspicuous amid this school for h'i strength, the 
very prince and apostle of realism in later days, the 
strongest and most satisfactory of all, we may cite 
Courbet, the Communist — he who, responsible for the 
overthrow of the Column Vendome, afterward paid some 
penalty for his vandalism. Master of the secrets of 
color — bold and vigorous both in interpretation and treat- 
ment — he commanded, says Jarves, "an introspective 
view into the primary elements of nature and of man, 
analogous to that exhibited in literature by Browning and 



FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. jg 

Walt Whitman." "Paint nothing that you have not 
seen ! Show me an angel and I will paint you an angel !" 
— was the motto and expression of Courbet. 

Wholly antagonistic in style was Corot — chief disciple 
and exponent of a more advanced dispensation. His is 
the great name in modern landscape art of that wonder- 
ful series which began half a century ago with Theodore 
Rousseau (inspired in the outset by the ''naturalistic" 
Constable), and enumerates among its list of names 
painters of varying styles of treatment, though impelled 
by much the same principles in art, Lambinet, Daubigny, 
Diaz and Dupre. These are men of the same school, 
not as imitating one another, for each preserves his own 
individuality, but agreeing "in looking at nature not only 
for what she seems to the visual eye, but still more for 
what she suggests to the soul." 

None of these noted artists were, after all, great 
landscapists in the sense of wide scope of subject and 
treatment, as Turner at least aspired to be. On the 
contrary, they are restricted to special aspects of nature 
and phases of scenery; so that only the wonderful mastery 
they exhibit and the charm with which they invest their 
special interpretations redeem them from the charge of 
monotony. Certainly were they working their vein in 
the realistic manner, we should tire of them in the extreme; 
but these wrought with thought, with deep sentiment and 
with loving feeling, and gave us the very poetry of 
landscape. 

Rousseau revived the technical excellence of Ruysdael 
and of Cuyp, with a more natural and correct rendition 
of the greens in nature. Lambinet's pastorals, with 
somewhat less of poetic feeling, exhibit the same mastery 
of the resources of color, blended in most harmonious 



80 FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 

gradations, and are illuminated with sunlight, "painted 
as faithfully as pigments can represent it." The poetry 
of these two, exuberant with the joy of nature, is that of 
Robert Burns — of the early Tennyson (especially of 
Tennyson's "Brook") — and of the summer vision of 
Lowell's "Sir Launfal." 

With Diaz and Corot, as with our American Wyant, it is 
the poetry of Bryant, and of Wordsworth; their sentiment 
being largely infused with a tender pathos, not to say a 
subdued melancholy, which reminds one of the author of 
"Thanatopsis, " or of the "Intimations of Immortality." 
These together touch the extremes of the gamut of color: 
Corot with the light-greens of spring, and the silvery- 
grays of early dawn or twilight; Rousseau and Lambinet 
including all the affluent hues of summer; Diaz with the 
dark-greens and russet-browns of autumn. 

Corot, it is admitted, is by far the greatest artist. The 
charm of his works consists not in their being mere 
transcripts of actual scenes — there is nothing of the 
photography of art in them. Either the artist penetrates 
deeper than many into the inner sense of Nature, or he 
imparts, like our own Francis Murphy, some quality of 
his own poetic imagination to the picture, which thereby 
gains the power to suggest and inspire moods of mind. 
Sweet mystery, dreamy reflection, tranquil enjoyment — ■ 
these are states of mind induced by contemplation of the 
bewitching landscapes of Corot. 

What is the true function of painting, what the province 
of the painter — and not of him alone, but of all artists 
and all art? Let us attempt to summarize, even though 
we should repeat. In so doing we shall by no means 
imagine that we are expressing any new thought, or one 



FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 8 1 

that has not been said in clearer and better phrase oft- 
times before; yet in this intensely practical and realistic 
age, the reminder can scarce come too often. Once 
more let us put the old wine into new bottles! 

It is then the province of art, not so much to represent 
nature as to interpret her. Nature, that is, in her 
highest; Nature at her best ! The artist should have all 
the knowledge of technique which goes with the strongest 
Realism. He shall abide in that land for a season, but 
he may not inhabit it. He shall work through Realism 
into Idealism. He shall attain first to the body, and 
then to the soul that informs it. 

The Poet first drinks at the fountain of preceding 
poets; he is an imitator before he is original. "He lisps 
in numbers ere the numbers come." 

The Sculptor may well study first, and long, anatomy 
and models of classic beauty, till at last the flowing 
outlines of grace shall naturally and fitly drape the form 
whose face shall image the grand conceptions of beauty 
and purity that his artist soul shall shadow forth. 

The Painter should, indeed, study nature. To him, all 
Nature and all Art should render up their secrets of light 
and shade, of form and coloring. Nature in sunshine 
and in storm: the broad prairie, the mountain cliff, the 
tumbling waterfall, the surge of ocean, the desert sand; 
the blue skies of Capri, the brassy glow of Egypt, the 
opal tints of Labrador; — all these should be known to the 
great painter. What then? Shall he stop at the pictured 
representation of these things on canvas ? If so, what 
has he achieved? Simply a magnificent colored photo- 
graph ! 

No ! He must, first of all, perceive what is picturesque 
in nature, what is worthy of translation, and then give 

7 



82 FROM REALISM TO IDEALISM. 

us all this and far more than the form and tint of moun- 
tain, sea and sky. He must shed upon the canvas that 
glory without which, rock nor tree, nor curled wave, nor 
tinted cloud has valid excuse for being; that glory 
which, shining in the soul of the artist, an inner sense of 
something finer than all these, in a mystic world within 
or beyond, shall reflect upon the canvas before us, 
suggesting a yet greater glory: — 

" The light that never was on sea or land, 
The * consecration and the poet's dream." 

To enter into the finer sense of things around us; to 
follow out the suggestions of beauty and glory that ordi- 
narily lie hidden in grass or flower, in tinkle of waterfall 
or tone of speech, in glow of sunset or tender irradiation 
of the face we love; all this appeals to a sense that, for 
want of better naming, let us term the poetry of life ! 

We choose to take it for granted that all the Finer 
Arts are correlated, and all pervaded in their higher 
forms with a spirit and essence, to grasp at whose 
expression we must reach far beyond all mere represen- 
tation of things we see around us, however beautiful they 
may be. This spirit may find some manifestation alike 
through kindling eye, through eloquent or rhythmic 
speech, through music, through all the elevated forms of 
artistic expression: 

" The kindled marble's bust may wear 

More Poetry upon its speaking brow, 
Than aught less than th' Homeric page may bear. 

One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 
Or deify the canvas till it shine 

"With beauty so surpassing all below, 
That they who kneel to idols so divine 

Break no commandment, for high Heaven is there, 
Transfused— transfigurated." 



THE OLD KNICK. 



•• Stranger on the right 
Looking very sunny— 
Obviously reading 
Something rather funny. 
Now the smiles are thicker — 
Wonder what they mean ! 
Faith, he's got the Knicker 
— bocker Magazine ! " 

So sang, once upon a time, John G. Saxe, the funny 
versifier, prince of doggerelists and poet-by-brevet ! In 
that primitive period, "Riding on a Rail "-road, was 
actually something so novel as to be commemorated — 
and the early 'age of the railway was also the era of the 
Knickerbocker Magazine. With the multiplicity of peri- 
odicals now issued, there is such an embarrassment of 
riches, that one has only to choose — if he can — between 
them, and may only regret that he shall miss unavoidably 
many bright, enjoyable things, from sheer inability to 
read — and pay for — so many monthly magazines. 

The generation of fifty years ago was not troubled in 
this way. For them, and for at least twenty years of 
their lives, the old "Knickerbocker" was the valued and 
only worthy representative of American Literature. 

The writer is happily reminded of this ancient magazine, 
now unknown probably even by name to the present 
generation of readers, by the presence in his library of 
two stray volumes of its series — and these in turn remind 
him of a few early numbers that he discovered in his 

83 



8 4 



THE OLD KN1CK. 



father's book-case, during his early boyhood, and of the 
delight with which he perused their contents. 

We are not unmindful that there flourished, earlier or 
later during this period, various and sundry other month- 
lies; notably those located in Philadelphia, including 
Godey's Ladies' Book, Peterson's and Graham's Maga- 
zines. But these occupied a minor field, and however 
ambitious, could hardly claim to represent American 
literature. Godey's and Peterson's were devoted to the 
ladies — those of polite society — and were especially 
affected by young girls just graduated from the "female 
seminary " of that period, long anterior to the day of 
Vassar or the co-educational university. Each number 
of these periodicals started out with a highly-colored, 
lithographed "fashion-plate" — made up of wonderful, 
wasp-waisted, artificial divinities — and, next to this, as 
frontispiece, a "steel-plate" of almost equally impossible 
natural inanities, representing some child of earth, of 
the fairer sex, so highly idealized and etherealized as to 
present the strongest possible contrast to her sisters of 
the fashion-plate. The plane of every-day life, and the 
pencil of passably good drawing, were rarely attained in 
any of these artistic productions. Their letter-press was 
composed of sentimental verse, or stories by young 
writers, of such themes, for instance, as how the country 
mouse — an exemplary and sensible girl — went one winter 
to return a visit of the city mouse— her fashionable cousin 
— and got badly snubbed therein, but succeeded, never- 
theless, in carrying off the spoil of the desirable and 
sensible city millionaire, who could appreciate goodness 
when he saw it ! 

But if this style of fiction was unexciting it was, at all 
events, unobjectionable. The Ouidas and Saltuses did 



THE OLD KNICK. 



85 



not get into the magazines of those days. If insipidity 
prevailed, happily impurity was lacking. Godey was 
made up of pretty pictures, poetry and patterns, together 
with the "prunes and prisms" of prose, and Peterson's 
was like unto it, at five cents less per number. Graham's, 
as a "gentleman's magazine," professed a little more 
virility in its literature, and gave a trifle more originality. 

So for a score of years, Knickerbocker was practi- 
cally without a rival in its own field, that of literature 
which really possessed a literary quality. Starting in 
1833 with Charles Fenno Hoffman, it came the next year 
into the editorship and part ownership of Louis Gaylord 
Clark, under which it continued throughout its history, 
and almost to its final close. In 1849, Harper's Magazine 
was started, but for several of its earlier years, that 
scarce came into competition with the Knickerbocker 
as a purveyor of American literature for, in the outset, 
the contents of Harper were largely "pirated" from the 
English periodicals. As some one smartly said at the 
time, its bill of fare showed that it "breakfasted on 
Thackeray, dined on Dickens and supped on Punch." 
With the advent of "Putnam's" in 1853 came an Amer- 
ican Magazine, of high class — one that is hardly surpassed 
by the best of those published to-day — and comprising, 
in one periodical, almost all the choice features now 
included among the whole list of the present. 

In the meantime, the good old Knickerbocker, for 
all those years, had at its command for contributors 
about all who gave dignity and honor to American 
literature; beginning with Hoffman, Cooper, Paulding, 
Irving, Halleck, Bryant, Miss Sedgwick and Miss Leslie, 
— of the old school — and including many of those of who 
have since come to the front — Longfellow, Holmes, 



86 THE OLD KNICK. 

Hawthorn, Whittier, Aldrich — as well as still others, who, 
though "promising" in their day, are now forgotten 
wholly, or survive only in name, to prove how uncertain 
and brittle may be a literary reputation. As last year's 
leaves in the new spring-time, "the woods are full of 
them;" but alas, they lie dead upon the ground instead of 
fluttering green upon the boughs ! 

The contents of many volumes now classic in our 
literature first saw the light in Knickerbocker. Between 
its covers first appeared Irving's "Crayon Sketches," 
Longfellow's "Psalm of Life" and "The Skeleton in 
Armor," Ware's "Zenobia," and the "Tanglewood 
Tales" of Hawthorn. 

Closely identified with the old Magazine is the memory 
of Willis Gaylord Clark, twin-brother of its editor. Willis 
was himself editor of the Philadelphia Gazette, but con- 
tributed frequently to Knickerbocker, notably a series of 
sketches entitled "Ollapodiana," which, in apparently 
desultory manner, happily mingled sparkling wit or genial 
humor with sentiment and pathos, and an occasional 
gem of poetry. These sketches added much to the early 
popularity of the Magazine — but their gifted author died 
young. 

With all its talented contributors, however, its varied 
store of good reading in prose and verse, its success 
depended, after all, far more upon its editor's own efforts 
than is usually the case with a magazine. The real 
Knickerbocker was neither Washington Irving or his 
fellow contributors, nor any ideal old Dutchman in 
"knickerbockers," planted in an old, high-backed, carved 
' chair on the title-page, but an actual, indefatigable, 
irrepressible Louis Gaylord Clark ! Every month, his 
potent personality spake out cheerily and unmistakably 



THE OLD KNICK. 87 

in the last twenty or thirty pages, from the "Editor's 
Table," and in the "Gossip with readers and corres- 
pondents." His voice rang out clear with hearty, genial 
good-fellowship, often effused with rollicking, boisterous 
mirth, and then again, warmed into an eloquent or poetic 
fervor — or anon lapsed into tender cadences of pathos. 
What did these pages contain, or rather what did they 
not contain? They were a literary melange of the first 
order; an Ollapodrida, a Salmagundi, and a Pot-Pourri 
of wit and of wisdom, of frolic and of fun ! The touch 
was, perhaps, less delicate, the wit not so refined as that 
of his brother Willis, but it flowed forth an exhaustless 
stream of good things, from month to month, and from 
year to year. 

The lines on which the old Knickerbocker Magazine 
was laid down, were much the same as many a goodly 
magazine craft has been built upon since. Their framers 
have somewhat closely followed the Clark model, or, 
where they vary from it, the divergence is more apparent 
than real. For instance, in Harper's Monthly the 
material of the old Knickerbocker "Editor's Table" has 
been taken apart, and reconstructed into an "Editor's 
Easy Chair," in which genial Curtis sits; an "Editor's 
Study," in which Howells handles lovingly every favorite 
volume; and an "Editor's Drawer," into which Charles 
Dudley Warner "puts in a thumb and pulls out a plum" 
or a few nectarines in season. The honest old Dutch 
table of the Knickerbocker had plenty of stuff in it to 
construct all this furniture out of — albeit the lumber was 
in a less finished and highly polished state than these 
moderns fashion it. One thing is true, however, of 
Louis Gaylord Clark; he was a "square man" — as 
square as his Editor's Table — and yet he could well "a 
round unvarnished tale deliver." 



88 THE OLD KNICK. 

All good things come to an end however. After a 
continuous service of a quarter of a century, the veteran 
retired from the editorship. Already many of the bright- 
est contributors to the magazine had left it, captured by 
and into the columns of some of its more stirring and 
aggressive rivals, of whom there were now several Rich- 
monds in the field; including the popular "Harper," 
the staunch " Putnam," and the brilliant young "Atlantic." 
The strife and turmoil of the Civil War had come, and 
with it a new class and generation of readers. A new 
king had arisen who knew not Joseph. It were better 
for the old Knickerbocker, to whom all this stir and 
strife was uncongenial, to step down and out, rather than 
to have it said of him ungraciously and ungratefully, — 
" Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage." 

And still he lingered ! One who has been a public's 
favorite, so hates to have the curtain rung down and the 
lights put out on him, for aye and all ! 

At last however, in his sixty-third volume, Old Knick 

was finally merged into another magazine, under the title 

of the "American Monthly Knickerbocker" — which, 

however, soon passed out of existence. It was, in a 

literary point of view, high time for the demise; 

'• For when his step grew feeble and his eye, 
Dim with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 

Still — in grateful memory of many a pleasant hour he 

gave in days lang syne — the writer is glad to say a good 

word even yet for the Old Knick. 



PUTNAM'S MONTHLY. 



Lovers of good literature of some thirty-five years 
ago that survive to the present, will recall with genuine 
pleasure the memory of the old Putnam's Magazine. In 
the above statement, one makes no account of the lapse of 
time nor of changing tastes; for surely, once to love 
good reading is never to lose its appreciation. In this 
case, so personal was the affection of its readers, that 
not only will the richly varied pages of the old magazine 
be fondly remembered, but also, in close association, the 
once familiar pea-green cover and the stalk of corn on 
either hand that framed the title thereon. That title-page 
cover came to be as well known as had long been .the 
old Dutchman with his pipe and chair to the lovers of 
the "Knickerbocker." 

It is the good fortune of the writer to possess a set of 
this periodical — both of the original series and of the 
"revived Putnam" — and these volumes now add the 
property of rarity to that of literary value, since outside 
of a few libraries they are scarce to be discovered. 

This magazine was founded in January, 1853, by 
George P. Putnam & Co., a firm of book publishers 
noted as well for the uniform merit and high literary 
character of their publications as for their liberal treat- 
ment of authors — who, in turn, held the firm in grateful 
esteem, instead of distrusting them, in common with the 
whole race of publishers, as their "natural-born enemies." 

The story of the origin of the Monthly was pleasantly 

89 



9° 



PUTNAM'S MONTHLY. 



told in some gossipy letters long years afterwards, by two 
of its editors, Charles F. Briggs and George William 
Curtis, on occassion of the revival of the Magazine in 
1868. The plans, it seems, were brought to light at a 
dinner-party given by the publishers, at which were 
present those immediately concerned and a few literary 
friends and to-be contributors. With Briggs and Curtis 
was associated also as an editor, Parke Godwin, the 
brilliant politcal writer and son-in-law of William Cullen 
Bryant. 

Into the Magazine went not only the high hopes and 
ardent endeavors of the rising author of the popular 
"Nile Notes," but also all the bank notes of which he 
had become possessed thereby — and possibly the addition 
of a few of his own "notes of hand" as well, for his 
share of capital toward a part ownership — and, a few 
years afterward, when the firm went by the board, in the 
crash of '57, he had the misfortune to find his little all 
swept into the vortex of the liabilities of the concern. 

But it was a brilliant junto of young writers that took 
upon themselves the burden of launching the new literary 
craft, assisted, indeed, by many of the ablest authors of 
the period, and attracting soon to their pages many yet 
unknown, but fresh and vigorous contributors. The 
general scope and plan of the periodical need hardly be 
outlined here, as it was essentially that of the "Atlantic" 
later on, of which, indeed, it was a brilliant precursor. 
Its reviews of current literature, both European and 
American, and of the progress of Music and of the Fine 
Arts — of which latter, indeed, there was then but little to 
chronicle — were most creditably handled by the editors, 
who also contributed most effectively to the body of the 
Magazine. Notable among these early articles was a 



P UT NAM'S MONTH L Y. y T 

series of papers which discussed from a high plane, the 
politics of the country and the policies of administrations, 
from the pen of Parke Godwin. Able, vigorous and 
fearless, these could scarce fail to make a deep impres- 
sion upon the public mind — and what was still more 
needed then, the public conscience — especially as they 
were soon given a more permanent form by collection 
into a published volume. One of these broadly compre- 
hensive yet trenchant articles, published in the October 
number of 1855, on "The Kansas Question," was 
particularly welcome to the young men from the North, 
settled here and then contending at great odds with the 
Slave Power. 

Denounced by the Democracy as outlaws, harassed by 
Territorial governors, and proscribed by presidents, in 
the height of their discouragements they were grateful to 
know literature for their friend and the power of 
"Putnam's" on their side. 

Another of the editors — that distinguished Mugwump, 
as well as genial "Easy Chair" in Harper's of to-day — 
then demonstrated his talented versatility by a dashing 
charge into the ranks of the plutocratic fashionable 
society of that era. His series of " Potiphar Papers," 
evinced him a humorist and satirist of high order— though 
showing somewhat the influence of Thackeray — and added 
early popularity to the Monthly. These, too, were soon 
reprinted in book form, followed, not long after, by 
another series of contrasting quiet and home-like sketches 
entitled « Prue and I." 

And then, too, the Sparrowgrass papers of Frederick 
S. Cozzens ! What lover of genial wit and rollicking 
humor in that day is going to forget the man who wrote, 
"It is a good thing to live in the country," and of the 



9 2 PUTNAM'S MONTHLY. 

ludicrous haps and mishaps of that life ! There has been 
a great development of " funny" Americans since then, 
whose wit is more exaggerated and broader, if not 
deeper — "the woods," and the syndicate "plated" 
newspapers are well nigh "full of them" — but in the 
ranks of genuine American humorists, and within the 
category of fun that, if not "fast and furious," is at least 
jocund and genial, we would still insist on reserving a 
good place for "Our American Cozzens." 

There were not wanting either, genuine "sensations" 
to be exploited in the Magazine; one of the earliest of 
which was that of the problem of the lost (and found) 
Dauphin of France, suggested in that taking title of the 
first article of its series, "Have we a Bourbon among 
us?" It was a matter of genuine historic interest, and 
its discussion helped to swell the circulation of the 
Magazine. 

Here too was broached, for the first time publicly in 
modern days, another controversy which, unlike, perhaps, 
that of the case of the Rev. Eleazar Williams, has never 
yet been finally set at rest, but like the restless ghost of 
Banquo, refuses to "down" for good at any authoritative 
bidding — the Bacon-Shakespeare controversy, started by 
Delia Bacon herself. 

Here is the article — "William Shakespeare and his 
Plays, an inquiry concerning them" — the first page of 
January, 1856; published as a first instalment, with a 
note from the editors, commending it as "a bold, 
original, most ingenious and interesting speculation as to 
the real authorship of the Plays" — and as "the result of a 
long and conscientious investigation on the part of the 
learned and eloquent scholar, their author" — yet disclaim- 
ing, of course, any responsibility for such literary heresy. 



P UTNA M'8 MONTH L Y. 93 

It was a stone thrown into still water whose resulting 
circles have kept on spreading and widening; but this 
writer, having just re-read the article, would aver that 
the literary vigor, which went with the original cast, has 
never since been equaled by any latter-day Ignatius 
" Baconian. " Beside the range of scholarship evidenced, 
there was an elevation of thought and feeling, a quality 
of literary style, and a power of imagination that have 
usually been conspicuous by their absence, in the later 
disquisitions on the subject. 

On the other hand, one of the greatest of modern 
Shakesperians, Richard Grant White, first came into the 
arena of Shakesperian criticism, about the same period, 
in this magazine; of which papers therein, a book was 
made, entitled " Shakespeare's Scholar." Of all the 
commentators, Grant White stands as among the clearest, 
the most vigorous and the most logical — except, indeed, 
when occasionally lapsing into rhapsody, beguiled by 
that transcendental theory of the "unconscious posses- 
sion" of "supreme, all-embracing," superhuman genius. 

We might go on almost indefinitely, and cite many 
more notable books, made up in whole or in part from 
the pages of Old Putnam; wonderful papers by Lowell, 
Thoreau, Herman Melville, Tuckerman, Quincy, Clough ! 
The stories were especially good — only the very best 
of those printed now-a-days comparing, indeed, with 
"Twice Married," "Israel Potter," "Miss Chester," 
' ' Stage Coach Stories, " " Wensley, " and dozens of others 
that might be named. "'Of making many books" there 
was "no end," out of the magnificent literary material of 
the old magazine. 

It was the rule of Putnam of the Old Series to give all 
its articles anonymously; a practice continued, in the 



94 P UTNAM'S MONTHL T. 

outset, by the "Atlantic," but since abandoned by about 
all American periodicals. This had its advantages in 
that it gave the fairest possible show to new contributors, 
the merit of their articles not being overborne by their 
lack of "the magic of a name." 

On the other hand, the famous writers were deprived 
to a large extent of the commercial value of theirs — the 
prestige that goes as an adjunct to recognized, demon- 
strated ability. It might seem that the reader too was 
deprived of some needed criterion, being thus left to his 
own judgment of what was best worth reading, unbiassed 
by any "sign-manual" of recognized authorship, and 
deprived of the satisfaction of his curiosity; but this was 
usually only for a time for — some way or other — such 
literary secrets were pretty sure to leak out, sooner or 
later, and in the meanwhile, perhaps, the speculations 
and "guesses" of the newspapers as to the authorship of 
a popular article, served to advertise the magazine more 
than the publication of the longest list of "noted" 
contributors. 

In the first number appeared Longfellow's stirring lyric, 
"The Warden of the Cinque Ports," and while one 
knowing newspaper, assuming it as his, asserted that it 
showed signs of failing power, another found it to be 
undoubtedly but a weak imitation, from an inferior pen ! 
So much for the infallible critics ! 

In a hurried glance over the volumes, one recognizes 
among the poems thus published anonymously — besides 
the lines on the death of the Duke of Wellington — "The 
Two Angels," "My Lost Youth," "Oliver Basselin," 
' ' Prometheus, " and ' ' Epimetheus, " by Longfellow; ' ' The 
Fount of Youth," "The Wind Harp," "Auf Wieder- 
sehen," and others by Lowell; "The Conqueror's Grave," 



PUTNAM'S MONTHLY. 



95 



of Bryant; "The Ranger, "of Whittier, and "My Mission" 
and "Young Love," by Bayard Taylor. 

In 1857, the magazine, which had for some time 
previous fallen into the hands of Dix & Edwards, was 
finally sold and merged into Emerson's Magazine, a 
sickly periodical, with no part in the nervous vigor of 
intellectual life that belonged to Putnam, and then 
soon passed out of existence. 

Eleven years after, when George P. Putnam & Sons 
had reestablished themselves in the book-publishing 
business, it was thought safe to attempt the revival of the 
old "Putnam's" — once more under the editorship of 
Charles F. Briggs — and a determined effort was made to 
warm up the embers of interest that attached to the 
memory of the " Old Mag." The surviving contributors, 
who had once been so fondly attached, were appealed to; 
all of whom expressed the heartiest interest, while many 
gave substantial encouragement of renewed literary con- 
tributions — as also did a corps of new writers who 
gradually gathered around it. 

Still, somehow, the old glories scarce came back. 
The young "Atlantic" now occupied very much the 
same field and cultivated it vigorously, and perhaps the 
business management was not such as to ensure financial 
success. At all events, after a respectable but not 
brilliant career of three years, the magazine was again 
sold out — this time to the Scribners — and on its ruins 
arose the successful "Scribner's Magazine," afterward 
renamed the "Century." 

The old "Putnam's" has gone for good, but its old- 
time readers will still remember it gratefully. At a time 
when the Harpers and other publishers were fast bound by 
the chains of commercial self-interest to "Old Hunker" 



9 6 



PUTNAM'S MONTHLY. 



subserviency to the South and to slavery, Putnam's gave 
itself freely to the cause of free soil and free thought. 
Amid the arid desert of an uninspired, commonplace 
literature, parched by the dreary drought of dough-faceism 
and famished through a dearth of faith, it was a fountain 
of sweet waters welling up refreshingly; it was the green 
palm waving in an oasis and casting a cooling shade, 
grateful as "the shadow of a great rock in a weary 
land." 



To one fresh from perusal of the current number — 
August, 1 890- -of the Atlantic, it might hardly seem that 
the transition from the magazine of one-third of a century 
ago were, after all, a violent one. 

Here is a poem by Whittier — "Haverhill" — that, at 
eighty-three years, betrays no loss; and here too, the 
"Autocrat," with whom we breakfasted in the first 
number of the Atlantic, still entertains us as brightly and 
genially as ever, "Over his Teacups!" Though every 
one enumerates "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," 
among his list of "One Hundred Favorite Books," yet 
even its covers scarce held anything racier than this 
poem of "The Broomstick Train." 

Remembering the mellow wine, so clear and fine, 
poured out as a libation at once to the youth which 
passes and the youth that endures, by Longfellow in his 
"Morituri Salutamis;" recalling Bryant's "Flood of 
Years," and all the later verse of Lowell, Whittier and 
Holmes, produced after fifty — yea, sixty years — it were 
scarce too much to affirm of these venerated authors 
"the best wine is the last." 



THE GOLDEN AGE. 



"Tis told in Hesiod's ancient rhyme 

And still we love the mythic story, 

How earth had once a primal time, 
Its sun, a more transcendent glory. 

The whole world at one altar knelt, 

And man to man as brother, 
In tranquil peace and concord dwelt 

As children of one mother. 

That Golden Age on earth once shared, 

When angels walked with men, 
Poet and seer have long declared 

Some day, shall come again. 

But waiting not, let each and all 
Restore some truth to fable olden, 

Some bliss of Eden ere the Fall, — 

Bring back, with love, the Age that's Golden! 



97 



1855 TO 1854, GREETING! 



(At a Reunion of Kansas Pioneers.) 

As one who, later born, yet envies not 

The earliest in primogeniture, 

But holds in honor and affection sure 
That elder brother, whose the happy lot 
To heir the crown for which they jointly fought,. 

Then freely shared with all beneath the sun 

The heritage of Freedom kept and won; — 
So we but honor, what yourselves have wrought. 
First, highest place, we gladly you assign 

Who earliest strove, 'mid darkest storm and stress: 
'Tis haply yours to know, ere life decline, 

The chance Fate gave into your hands to bless. 
Founders and fathers of a mighty State, 
We hail you as of all most fortunate ! 



98 



THE LOUNGER 



AT HOME AND ABOUT. 



Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay 
at home. — Emerson. 



TO THE POET OF THE PARK. 



Thou, whom the early hasteners to toil 

Discern 'mid shadowed copses, as they pass, 

Noting each glint of pearl on dewy grass, 

Inhaling all the fragrance of the soil — 

Welcoming the echo of wood-robin's note, 

(Sweetest of all that burst from feathered throat); 

Who markest with delight each opening bud, 

And each new leaf that trembles in the wood — 

No shy thing animate but trusts thy mood, 

And loves thee, as thou lovest bird and flower: — 

Here may we find thy haunt at later hour 

Of drowsy noon, stretched out by foot of tree, 

Its shadowing leaves thy curtain-canopy; 

Hearing of thousand insect wings the drone and whir, 

The wren's sharp twitter and the hum of bee: 

Thou chartered favorite ! 'tis given thee 

To feel each tingling pulse of Nature stir, 

To be in touch and unison with her ! 

^ ~i' ^i >jc ^ :fc ^ :|; 

But as the sun rides down to glowing west, 
And length'ning shadows stretch athwart the glade — 
Leave thou to multitude thy Park, displayed 
In garish light, and evening dress arrayed; — 
Seek thou that scene which Nature claims her best, 
And climb with me the slope of Oread's crest ! 

101 



I0 2 TO THE POET OF THE PARK. 

Of tree and shrub a varied range explore ! — 

Thy birds thou shalt not miss, but gain the more: 

And more of all ! — Thine eye, in pensive mood. 

May range o'er stream and valley, plain and wood, 

Viewed thus from far, a peopled solitude — 

Where storm-clouds darken — or where sunshine smiles 

Above a circling arc of four-score miles ! 

In quiet noon, in far-off leagues of skies, 

Becalmed at sea, float snowy argosies; — 

At silent eve, from distance infinite 

Of dim horizon trembling into sight, 

Rolls toward this cliff of shore — toward you and me, 

A misty blue of darkling, heaving sea ! 

******** 

Thou, who canst love a Nature vast and grand, 
Come where the heavens and earth alike expand, 
Come and behold this ocean of the land ! 




TRAVELS AT HOME. 



I. 

The writer, who, in his own time and earlier days, 
disported somewhat as a rambler, has now settled down, 
in his green old age, into a confirmed, professional 
Lounger, vibrating between the chimney corner in winter 
and the street corner in summer time — indulging in an 
occasional stroll, it may be, as far as Bismarck Grove, 
or even the borders of the Wakarusa, in the pleasant 
spring or mellow autumn days. 

It occurs to him that there may be those who, like 
himself, or for other reasons than age or indolence 
restricted in their wanderings, but unrestrained as to their 
loiterings and ponderings, might yet be able, with a trifle 
of assistance or direction, to glean a goodly harvest of 
visual enjoyment within their circumscribed area of 
observation — especially when that range is so prolific in 
beautiful scenic effects as is the vicinity of our town of 
Lawrence. Should this last statement be received by 
any with incredulity, and a smile at the local egotism of 
the Lounger, let it be his pleasing task to attempt the 
conversion of such to a share of his belief in its truth. 

There are always two classes of people in this world — 
those who believe that the rainbow touches the earth very 
far away from the beholder, and those who never fail to 
see it arching and glowing almost immediately over their 
own heads. Of the two, the latter class is probably the 
happier. 

103 



IQ 4 TRAVELS AT HOME. 

Again, the division may be made on other lines, which 
are happily far from inclusive. First, those who travel 
far and see little. Second, those who see and learn a 
great deal without stirring any distance from home. Of 
course, there are home-keeping folks in plenty, who see 
little and learn less ("home-keeping folks have ever 
homely wits," says the adage of such), while fortunately, 
on the other hand, we have some travelers whose many 
angles of incidents are fully equaled by their angles of 
reflection; which, indeed, should always be as true in 
foreign travel as in Physics. 

But were we confined to the first two classes alone, the 
Lounger would hardly chose him who had "traveled the 
wide world all over," and yet had brought back little of 
value save a few diamonds and dress-suits, that he had 
saved duty on. Of such, the trunks are generally better 
filled than their heads, and they fairly merit the cynic 
observation once falsely fathered on Humboldt, and as 
falsely applied to a noted American — that he "had 
traveled farthest and seen the least of any man he had 
ever met." 

While the Lounger might desire for himself the wider 
range of observation, he grants the meed of his humble 
admiration to those who, tethered by a short rope, have 
closely and exhaustively cropped the field of knowledge 
within their reach; or to put it in more aesthetic phrase, 
who, from closest sympathy with nature, have taken into 
their hearts and minds every charm and secret which she 
discloses only to her chosen votaries. To such, an island 
may be almost as comprehensive as a universe ! 

Gilbert White, of Selborne, found the little parish he 
inhabited a microcosm of England and the world — and 
in making its natural history noted, created a classic of 



TRAVELS AT HOME. 



I05 



English literature. Thoreau could find almost everything 
in flora and fauna around the shores of Walden Pond, 
which itself, like Wordsworth's Rydal Mere, is only a 
mill-dam in extent. A Pennsylvanian — Dr. William 
Darlington — publishing a local botany of his native 
county, made his "Flora Cestrica " so complete and 
comprehensive that it became a standard, securing its 
author the association of leading naturalists the world 
over; his own name given to a family of plants in remote 
California, and his bust placed near that of Sir Joseph 
Hooker in the Royal Gardens of Kew. 

These are but a few instances of the many that might 
be cited as to the capacity of the born naturalist to 
garner rich harvests from limited fields, and the rule 
holds good, to a great extent, with respect to the beauties 
and scenic effects of nature, as well. One need not 
traverse sea and land to find them; to him who is by 
true sympathy instructed in their mysteries, they will be 
"here and there and everywhere" around him. He can 
behold as richly tinted skies in Kansas as in Italy; more 
glowing reflections in the despised Kaw than the Arno at 
Pisa or Florence; as broad and beautiful a landscape 
spread out from the summit of Mt. Oread as from the 
heights of far famed Fiesole, albeit not so classic. 

All very well, says the reader, but, dropping sentiment 
and coming down to business, whereabouts do you 
propose to begin your "travels at home?" Gentle 
reader — gentle or simple, whoever you be — the Lounger 
does not propose to start you off at all at the end of this 
long exordium ! No ! take breath for a week first, and 
in the meantime, any day in the week, go and stand at 
the intersection of Massachusetts and Winthrop streets — 



106 TRAVELS AT HOME. 

in the center thereof — and look east, west, north and 
south ! And if right there, where hundreds pass and 
repass each other daily, you can discern naught of beauty 
at the end of any of the green vistas, the Lounger has 
grave doubt whether he ever wishes to take you along 
with him at all. 

II. 

The candid reader (and all my readers are of the 
candid kind, for none others will care to scan these pap- 
ers) will frankly admit that the Lounger did not seize him 
perforce and rush him off hurriedly upon these Travels at 
Home. Every journey presupposes a certain amount 
of preparation given beforehand, and certain requisites 
of travel laid in. Now, for our shorter ramblings, about 
the only requirement the Lounger would insist upon is a 
receptive state of mind. This is absolutely essential to 
the proper appreciation and enjoyment of the scenery, 
and will be found just the happy mean — as far removed 
from any gushing tendency on the one hand, as from a 
nil admirari spirit on the other. It is the tendency of 
young and unsophisticated travelers of ardent and 
impulsive nature, to exaggerate and "gush." It is the 
fault of experienced ones to be hypercritical — persistently 
unwilling to discover anything to admire. Even when 
you direct their attention to some lovely scene, they 
can only impair its charms by belittling comparison 
with their reminiscences. 

Which prefer you, gentle reader, the Caviler or the 
Gusher? As for the Lounger, he commits himself to 
neither company, but like the colored gentleman to whom 
was presented the alternative of two terrible roads of 
theologic dilemma — "dis darkey takes to de woods." 

vjv ^» ?p 7fc yfc 7J^ 7Jt yp 



TRAVELS AT HOME. 107 

More than a week ago the Lounger left his reader 
"planted" at the corner of Massachusetts and Winthrop 
streets. Apologizing for the incivility, if he will now 
climb with us the stairways of the National Bank build- 
ing, he will be amply rewarded for the fatigue by the- 
fine views he will obtain from its upper windows, 
embracing nearly all the city and much of the beautiful 
country surrounding. From the north windows, the 
view embraces the dam/ the mills and bridges, the river 
and its valley; with North Lawrence and Bismarck, and 
the beautiful rolling bluffs beyond, which, in the days 
when the old tribe inhabited them, the early settlers were 
wont to call the Delaware Hills. 

These finely rounded bluffs, ranging in from the west- 
ward almost parallel with the river's course, and then 
trending off to the northeast toward Leavenworth in 
smooth and graceful promontories, are always a beautiful 
element in the landscape around Lawrence, whether 
clothed in the white snows of winter, or, as now, in 
emerald verdure of spring. Especially are they in their 
scenic glory on those days of fitful sky, when the fickle 
sun, shining between shifting clouds, flecks them with 
alternate light and dark, as sunshine and shadow in play 
chase each other over their fair surface. This effect in 
the distance is most beautifully exhibited however, from 
the summit of Mt. Oread. 

Descending from this favorable near-by post of obser- 
vation, we take our way to the wagon-bridge. This is 
the favorite haunt, not onlv of occasional amateur artist 
for sketching, but of the whole tribe of Loungers. It is 
their "custom always in the afternoon" — especially of 
a Sunday afternoon in fine weather, to resort here in 
flocks and swarms. It is the Ultima-Thule in wandering 



io 8 TRAVELS AT HOME. 

of their shoals — as the dam beneath is that of the shoals 
of cat-fish in spring time. 

There is always something attractive to your true 
Lounger in the sight and sound of running water. It 
soothes and satisfies his soul. Like Tarn O'Shanter's 
witch, "a running stream he dares not cross" — that 
requires too much effort — he just stays on the bridge and 
watches it hurrying by. Here, with the music of the 
water rushing against the piers, and the roar of its torrent 
dashing over the fall, he surveys the finely curved shores 
and the still reach of the waters above, dotted with an 
occasional pleasure boat and "white sail gliding down," 
or the even stretch they take, churned into foam and 
breakers, as they rush on eastward under the railroad 
bridge; the little island in the stream below giving 
pleasing variety to its career. Here, too, the professional 
Lounger watches with interest what current of life flows 
past. He is almost willing that the dam should "go 
out" once more — that he might be furnished with the 
mental occupation of seeing it rebuilt ! Here, again, 
from his comfortable perch, he can watch the Santa Fe 
trains as they come and go; though alas ! he misses, of 
late years, their taking on of passengers from the platform 
below ! His crowd of old, on those occasions, was wont 
to be so miscellaneous in composition that one was 
reminded of Tennyson's prelude to "Lady Godiva:" 

" I waited for the train at Coventry, 
I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge." 

****** * * 

Referring to the future a visit to the charming green 

glades of Bismarck Grove, we retrace our steps to our 

starting point. 

Here we are tempted by the verdure of South Park to 



TRAVELS AT HOME. 



109 



take that route, from whence, on the way, at the crossing 
of Henry street, we could obtain a fine foreshortened 
glimpse of West Lawrence, with the western bluffs for a 
background — as the Rocky Mountains wall up the western 
end of the streets of Denver. But, instead, we turn to 
the right, and follow Winthrop, to the corner of Tennes- 
see. Here, with the beautiful Trenton-red of the corner 
residence as a foreground, we get a fine bit of effect, 
looking north to the river and beyond. 

From the head, each of Tennessee and Ohio Streets 
also, pleasant river views are to be obtained. It was from 
the latter point especially that the regatta on the Kaw, a 
few years ago, was seen to the best advantage. 

The vistas to the south along both these avenues are 
favorable specimens of street views in Lawrence, which 
at this season of the year, from the wealth of foliage 
framing them, are a perpetual delight to a lover of the 
greens in nature. 

III. 

An Old Dramatist — thus easily the Lounger evades an 
issue of vexed controversy — an old dramatist represents 
to us on one occasion, the boon companions of a graceless 
and reckless reprobate, receiving reports on his sad 
condition; sick unto death, out of his mind, and babbling 
of green fields ! The worn out old voluptuary, the 
wonted familiar of the stones of Eastcheap street and 
tavern, is now stretched on a bed of pain from which he 
shall never rise. A reflex from the innocent and happy 
days of boyhood sweeps across the jangled chords of his 
unconscious brain, and "he babbles of green fields ! " 

They have no hopes of him now: that lapse into such 
senseless vagary of the imagination — such strange freak 
of that tongue which never wagged to them but of world- 



HO TRA VELS AT HOME. 

liness and wickedness — denotes that he is very far gone, 
indeed ! Forsooth, "he babbles of green fields ! " 
******** 

One day in Brussels, the Lounger, in descending Rue 
Montagne de la Cour — that thoroughfare which pitches 
so steeply down from the plateau of the New, Town to 
the Old — chanced to glance through a break in the row 
of tall buildings that line it on the right; and, looking 
athwart broken lines of red and gray tiled roofs, over 
mellowed masses of buildings which slope downward to 
the plain, the vision stretched past the old city, its 
pinnacles and spires, and on across river, field and forest, 
to a far off horizon. 

It was a glance as through a window just opened in a 
high tower, while yet our feet touched the solid earth. 
It was a magnificent picture, deeply framed in by massive 
walls. Its unpremeditated, yet wondrously picturesque 
effect, was such that the Lounger may scarce lose its 
vivid impression so long as memory shall last. 

Now the Lounger did well to pause and enjoy this 
wonderful picture — for it was his "by right of discovery," 
not being discoursed of in any guide book — and then, 
too, he was entitled to all he could get, in part payment 
for thousands of miles of toilsome journey. Why should 
one go abroad unless to see something? 

But the busy Bruxellians, thronging past by the thousand 
every hour — why should it be anything to them ? Suppose 
one should delay his companion with: "Hold here, a 
moment ! Just look at that fine bit of effect through the 
opening there ! " His comrade would reasonably exclaim 
impatiently: "Oh fudge! Don't stop mooning here in 
the way of people ! you can see that any day of your 
life. Come along; we have only five minutes left to 



TRA VJEL8 AT HOME. I1T 

reach the Bourse and place that order for stock, and, 
after that, you know we agreed to meet those ladies, to 
lunch at the ' Milks ColonnesS If fine scenery is what 
you want, come with me to Switzerland this summer ! '* 

Another day abroad, the Lounger was strolling listlessly 
along the Heeren Gracht, near the heart of that "northern 
Venice," Amsterdam. If you have any doubt as to the 
identity of the Lounger, you can always detect him by 
the slowness of his gait. On this occasion he was on his 
way to a picture gallery, and consequently strolling even 
more tardily than usual. It was a pleasant day and a 
peaceful scene. Here were no hurrying crowds, and he 
had chance to loiter and enjoy the beautiful studies of 
color; the water of the winding canals, with gray stone 
bridges, and green trees bordering, all contrasting with 
the differing but harmonious tints of red in brick of wall 
and tile of roof, afforded by the quaint old buildings. 
It was all artistically perfect in tone of color, and 
shockingly "out of drawing," so far as lines were con- 
cerned — the Lounger being charmed not to find a single 
straight one in the whole picture. The streets wound in 
and out, and the buildings were guiltless of verticals 
anywhere. They give the stranger the impression, at 
first, that they are out on a "jolly drunk" — but that is 
not the matter. Too much water is the trouble instead 
of anything stronger. 

Well, the Lounger would have enjoyed these views 
greatly, but for lack of company. Do you know how 
hard it is to laugh when alone ? Just try it, my humor- 
ously inclined reader ! You will find that it requires 
something extraordinarily funny to constrain you to 
laugh all by yourself. You need sympathy also, to 



! r 2 TEA VELS AT HOME. 

enjoy scenery to the utmost. Through some occult 
suggestion, the Lounger's memory flew back to a day 
spent in Bismarck Grove, when he was associated with 
two ladies of culture and artistic taste, as "hanging 
committee" of the Art exhibit. "Now," thought he, 
"if Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Black were only here, how 
much they would enjoy all this." 

******** 

Well, just the other day, another lady — who is suffi- 
ciently near the Lounger to serve as mental stimulus, 
and preserve his wits from perishing through inanition — 
was at a tea party — what they call now-a-days "afternoon 
luncheon" — and sat at the same table with our two good 
friends, Mrs. Black and Mrs. Gray. Breaking one of 
those pauses with which the time spent at five-o'clock- 
teas is generally made up, jolly Mrs. Gray exclaims: — 
"Who is this Lounger that is mooning so much in the 
Journal of late — do you know? I should think he might 
amend his style a little, as well as find something 
worth writing about, beside perpetually harping on the 
beauty of the verdure around here. Who is he anyway — 
do you know? " 

The question was so direct, and withal so embarrassing, 
that the lady addressed — our Queen Consort — who passes 
by another sobriquet in society, had to truthfully acknowl- 
edge that she was "the Lounger," herself. 

— Now, unkind and unappreciative Mrs. Gray — and 
to be unappreciative of the Lounger's articles surely is 
unkind — you should know an author better ! It is 
impossible for him to "get over his stile," and almost 
equally difficult for him, at this beautiful season of the 
year, to "keep off the grass," no matter how many 
warning signs you may put up. 



TRAVELS AT HOME. 



113 



The Lounger can well conceive that this "babbling of 
green fields" must seem strange to many, and absurd 
that he should stand at street corners, admiring green 
vistas, when he might better go into the shops and transact 
some business, thus helping to "make business" these 
dull times ! Or, indeed, that he should affect to climb 
the stairways of any bank building in Lawrence for other 
purpose than to get his note extended therein ! 

Nevertheless, so long as people will love the beautiful, 
and all cannot spend time and money to seek it in travel 
in foreign lands, let the Lounger plead once more that 
our own folks may keep their eyes open to that beauty 
which is all around them. On any one of these fine days, 
come up to the summit of our Pisgah — Mount Oread — 
and see the Promised Land ! Men from other shores 
have found the landscape admirable in comparison — and 
it is well worth gazing upon, even if it is our own ! As 
the minister sometimes says — "let me repeat: " 

" We look too high for things close by— 
For far-off joys — and praise them, 
Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet, 
If we'd but stoop to raise them." 




ON MOUNT OREAD. 



A juvenile member of the Lounger's family, once, 
on occasion of discussion as to a debatable visit to be 
made, attempted in all sincerity "to move the previous 
question" on the subject, by the following expression: 
"Why, I must go, I'm invited!'' 1 

If invitations do imply an imperative necessity of 
corresponding attendance, the Lounger will certainly be 
on hand at the Kansas State University, on Commence- 
ment week — for he has been invited ! Yea, through the 
unerring certainty of the mails, and the generous favor 
of the "powers that be," he has received no less than 
three copies of a printed invitation to be present. Grate- 
fully acknowledging the compliment — -in triplicate — we 
accept all three. We are coming in full force. And 
we shall kindly encourage our numerous friends to come 
and share with us all the enjoyments that pervade this 
happy season, especially the intellectual feast "set down 
on the bills" of the Commencement menu. We shall go 
through the whole "bill of fare," as the countryman is 
said to do sometimes at an unwonted high-class hotel. 
The delicately flavored "purees" and the appetizing 
"consommes" being already disposed of, we shall now 
follow on with all the solid viands and "sweets," in due 
successive course: on to the valedictory and the benedic- 
tion, when — the parting word of good cheer having been 
spoken — "the favored guests" of the occasion shall be 

114 



OS MOUNT OREAD. 



115 



kindly sped to the world outside; but certainly not without 
a "souvenir" each, in the shape of "sheepskin!" In 
all the after years — among all the jocund feasts they may 
share, at all the "groaning boards" they may surround — 
haply there is "one class" of these guests of to-day that 
may never receive thereat any "favor" which shall be 
esteemed more precious than this ! 

fn the intervals between the sessions (if any are left), 
those of us that come up to this Jerusalem, or Mecca 
of ours — the University— -only on occasion of this 
annual pilgrimage, will do well to improve the opportunity 
to see what has been added since last year. Verily "the 
world does move," and our University with it! Once, 
as the Lounger easily recalls, only a little building at the 
north slope of Mt. Oread; now with its five commodious 
edifices — and one of these, magnificent Snow Hall, which 
arouses the enthusiasm of all beholders ! And yet, these 
'•surface indications" are but faint suggestions of what 
is going on inside. "For particulars, see" — Annual 
Catalogue. 

We will visit the library in its changed quarters — a 
new edition of itself, revised and improved.* We shall 
not fail to view the exhibit in the Drawing and Painting 
Department. It is "all set down in black and white" 
this year — or rather it is hung up in those tones. When 
we have enough of these comely moderns, we will call 
upon the language departments, for their classic models 
of Art — not forgetting the statues and casts of Demos- 
thenes, Kikero, Mercury, Zeus, — and the rest of "them 
literary fellows" of ancient times! But chiefly our 
researches will be made in Natural History, among the 
birds and beasts; our far-away cousins (like unto our- 

*Xo\v embracing 13.000 volumes, instead of number given on page 27. 



1 1 6 ON MOUNT OREAD. 

selves — and yet happily unlike, even when skeletonized): 

the giant Megatherium, the Pleiosaurus, the Pleonasm, 

the Pterodactyl, the Dactyls and Spondees. Possibly 

the Lounger has got some animals mixed in here that 

really belong to another department. But at all events, 

he is very sure of the "bulls and bears," and especially 

of Prof. Dyche's buffalo. Poor fellow; there used to be 

no mistake about him ! There was plenty of him then, 

and he spoke (or rather bellowed) for himself; but now: 

" Last of his race, on battle plain, 
His voice shall ne'er he heard again." 

*.# * * * * * * 

Verily, Mr. Chancellor, this castle of yours "hath a 
pleasant seat. " What university in all the land hath such 
an outlook; one embracing such a magnificent scope of 
country on every hand? The Lounger fancies he hears 
some one whisper "Cornell;" but this deponent, knowing 
naught of Ithaca, "saith not." 

Our venerable poet, Holmes, said not long ago — con- 
trasting in reminiscence the outlook from the Harvard of 
his earlier years with that now circumscribed on every 
hand by intrusive, neighboring brick walls — that it was a 
rare good fortune to a boy to be born and reared where 
he could have the prospect of a natural horizon. If this 
be so; if the daily contemplation, in early years, of 
pleasing and inspiring scenery will have its specific effect 
both inward and outward — in developing a love for the 
beauty and freedom of nature, and in a corresponding 
widening of the mental horizon — then the students of 
Kansas University are especially blessed in their oppor- 
tunity. Certainly the natural horizon before them is 
wide enough to suggest and inspire mental "breadth of 
view." 



ON MOUNT OREAD. 



117 



The similitude of a morning landscape — looking east- 
ward — to the aspect of human life as seen from the 
stand-point of youth, is no doubt sufficiently trite, and 
yet it often comes upon the Lounger with renewed 
significance, as suggested by the view from this noble 
hilltop. Fresh and dewy, sparkling yet distinct is the 
foreground, as its waves of verdure swell upward to his 
feet. Beyond, the landscape spreads out fair to his 
vision, without shadow of cloud upon its face; but soon 
its middle distance merges in the haze that lies over the 
valley, concealing all but the tops of intervening ridges — 
the dim landmarks that youth intends to make upon its 
journey. 

Farther on, the broad horizon can scarce be even 
faintly traced, lost in the effulgent sunlight; the glamor 
with which hope irradiates the bright future of youth ! 

There is no perspective to this picture; the glow of 
faith has effaced it; youth needs none ! 

And confident Manhood: it, too, scarce feels the want 
of ''distance." Its landscape is symbolized by the view 
from the south and west windows of the University, just 
before noontide. A view of fertile fields and meadows 
to be tilled; and beyond, of stream and, if need be, of 
hills to be crossed with easy endeavor. Near to us — 
beautiful slopes, graceful and noble "lines of descent," 
that make and mark the transition from hill to valley. 
How beautiful it all is; how practicable everything is; 
how easily accomplished ! Everything is to our hand in 
this view; everything is possible. We reach forth our 
hand, and lo. it is done ! Life, health, strength are ours; 
Nature, jocund Nature, herself is ours ! 

■• 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen. 
Her wreath of summer flowers, her robe of summer green." 



I ! 8 ON MO UNT OREAD. 

And then comes the afternoon of life. The prospect 
is no longer all sunshine: shadows, clouds, and sometimes 
the darkness of storm sweep over it; but afterward comes 
the "clearing up," with all the charms and joys of nature 
enhanced by the contrast. The channels of experience 
are deepened, the springs of life renewedly filled, even 
by the storms that pass over us. Life has more signifi- 
cance. The tones of the afternoon landscape are more 
varied, richer and deeper; the tints of nature more 
harmonious — if we look eastward. There is enough 
perspective now; the horizon begins to grow distinct and 
sometimes sharply defined ! 

^c =;: ^ :•: ^ * * * * 

There is a seat that often finds the accustomed Lounger 
now at eventide. It is one of the top ones of those 
cyclopean steps which buttress the entrance stone stairway 
of Snow Hall. Before him, the tops of the trees in North 
Valley of the campus, jut up from the tangled depths of 
wild-wood below. Beyond, lies a beautiful little valley, 
and the pleasant homes of West Lawrence. Farther on, 
a little circlet of water gleams within the foliage that lines 
the bank of the river, of which this apparent lakelet is 
but one of the windings made visible. Beyond this again, 
and foreshortened, lie the everlasting hills, which have 
seen differing races of savage men come and depart. 
Behind them, as the light fades from the hill- tops, its 
glow is caught up by the mountain-like banks of cloud 
that lie piled in massive cumuli; which glow, and then 
fade in turn, in the dusk of even. 

And lastly comes the night with its majesty of the 
heavens, wherein, one by one, come out "the stars invis- 
ible by day." 



IN THE WOODS. 



" Of all the beautiful pictures 
That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all." 

Some one has suggested that the Lounger's peregrina- 
tions have been quite restricted in their range, even for 
Travels at Home: embracing no greater extent than from 
the river to Mount Oread ! Admitting the fact, is not 
that doing pretty well for a lounger ? Walter Scott said 
of his "Marmion:" — 

"Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, 
And not a history. " 

and the Lounger might plead that his is chiefly a tale of 
the town-site, and not a gazetteer or map of Kansas ! 

He is free to admit that thus far he has had no occasion 
in " these presents" to utilize the railways of his country, 
but it is, perchance, high time to promote at least the 
patronage of the Lawrence livery stables. Let us then 
go abroad — say three miles or so out of town. 

On his recent visit here, Colonel Higginson was most 
impressed, as he more than once expressed, by the 
wonderful change made in the appearance of these prairies 
by the growing of trees. Thirty-two years had elapsed 
since he had seen Kansas, and the transformation of the 
landscape as exhibited from Mount Oread was marvelous 
in his eyes. Not so much, after all, for "the improve- 

119 



I2 o IN THE WOODS. 

ments, " the numberless houses, the tilled fields, and other 
signs of cultivation (for these he had somewhat antici- 
pated), but for the trees that aid so charmingly in 
diversifying the landscape, and which change what was 
once a monotonous expanse of plain, to a scene of sylvan 
as well as of pastoral beauty, scarce to be excelled. 

On the other hand, the old-time and primitive forests 
have largely disappeared. These, it is true, were chiefly 
confined to the borders of the larger streams, but just 
here at Lawrence we had quite a large body of timber, 
above and below the town, on the south banks, and 
especially across the river, where North Lawrence now 
stands. Of this, Bismarck Grove, with its fine old 
spreading elms, is but a remnant, haply spared. That, 
as the Lounger recalls, about marks the confines of the 
woods where they touched the prairie, but all intervening 
was a heavy, though not dense growth of timber, embra- 
cing grand old oaks, walnuts, cottonwoods and sycamores, 
through which the first road to Leavenworth wound 
deviously after leaving the ferry. In those days, when 
returning from an occasional visit to that town, belated 
at nightfall, after traversing the Delaware Reserve, how 
interminable and darkling seemed the path, meandering 
between those hoary monarchs, until we reached at last 
the sandy shores of the river, from whence, across the 
flood, shone dimly out "the lights of home." Then, 
routing out from his cabin on the bank, the old French 
half-breed ferryman, we were soon set across by skiff, or 
"floating scow," and back to the welcome precincts of 
the "historic city." But — the Lounger is here being 
betrayed, he fears, into that garrulous reminiscence which 
indicates approaching senility. 

******** 



IN THE WOODS. I2 i 

From the slopes of Mount Oread, looking a little to 
the north of eastward, there is still to be discerned what 
appears quite a heavy body of forest, embracing the 
timber of the river about the mouth of Mud Creek, and 
stretching back to the upland beyond — a fair fragment of 
that heavy growth which once marked the whole course 
of the river as seen from this point. 

But the Lounger is "minded" to take his "gentle 
reader" with him on the little voyage of discovery which, 
within the short distance of three miles, raav afford an 
intimate impression of a bit of forest, or, at least, a study 
for a "wood interior." This is reached by taking the 
middle Lecompton road, west from town. After climb- 
ing the steep hill westward (or rather south-west) of 
"Hillhome," we turn in our seat to take a retrospective 
view of Lawrence. From this point, only the western 
and northern portion of the city is visible — the vicinity 
of the post-office being especially prominent — but the 
view embraces much beside that is very attractive; 
including, in the near foreground, the river valley, which 
assumes quite a park-like appearance, as beautified with 
the rounded, deep masses of foliage that line the little 
winding stream or ' ' branch " that intersects it. Lawrence 
lies in the middle distance, and beyond it the broad belt 
of forest already mentioned as extending to the eastward, 
while just to the right, Eudora is seen sleeping on the 
billowy plain that sweeps on to the far horizon, dim in 
the blue and hazy distance. 

It is but a short step after leaving this "coigne of 
vantage," till our road dips down into a wooded hollow; 
at first but a narrow gulch, but soon widening into a 
broad ravine, which, expanding, seeks the lower level of 
the valley of another Mud Creek. Oh ! hapless soil of 



I22 IF THE WOODS. 

rich, fatty, or ashen black, which so appropriately bestows 
the unpoetic name of Mud Creek upon so many Kansas 
brooks — would we ever willingly exchange your homely 
productiveness, to gain the sparkling limpidity which 
correlates with the sterile granite of mountain streams? 
Is there no happy medium; no land where the timely 
and bounteous rains of heaven — falling on the just as 
well as the unjust — may descend on fairly fertile alluvium, 
without carrying in solution to the streams and seaward 
so much of turbid yellowness and blackness ! 

To the left and onward, as we descend, trends a range 
of picturesquely sloping and rolling hills, covered with 
woods that late in the season afford quite a beautiful 
effect of variegated autumn coloring. Here is about as 
good sketching-ground for foliage — that is foliage in 
mass — as the Lounger is acquainted with in this vicinity. 
Then too, as the road winds along the margin of this 
forest, one comes in contact with sights and scents — of 
plant and shrub, of leaf and blossom — which carry him 
back with the swift telegraphy of memory to those days 
of boyhood when all such were very near and dear to the 
fresh and opening senses, the avenues to the mind and 
heart of youth. 

Traversing this road in the early summer, one gets at 
almost every step a luscious whiff, the scent of the wild 
grape in blossom. It is well worth the ride from town — 
and the carriage hire — to inhale once more this delicious 
fragrance, and to hear echoing in the deep wildwood the 
sweet notes of birds, especially the sweetest and clearest of 
all, that of the remembered "wood-robin" of the Lounger's 
. boyhood — which our naturalists insist should be known 
instead as the wood-thrush. The Lounger loves, indeed, 
the "dim old forest" of the present, not only for its own 



IN THE WOODS. 



123 



sights and scents and sounds, its "pictures" of to-day — 
but for the hundreds of others it suggests — the never-to- 
be-forgotten recollections of childhood: 

And still in memory fresh as then 

I seek each thicket, glade and glen, 

Where woodsy odors wild and sweet 

Rise up at every crush of feet : 

Where waves the plumy fern, and dank 

Green mosses carpet rock and bank. 

On knolls that boast " the Barrens'' name 

The mountain-pink, a sheet of flame. 

In distance burns— but glowing near. 

Azalea's trumpets fill the air. 

With pungent perfume blown afar. * 

The kalmias waxen clusters spread 

On rocky slopes— while overhead 

The dogwood drops its petal sn 

And fragrant with each wind that blow.-. 

By roadside blooms the sweet-brier rose. 

Far down along the forest glades, 
Upspringing, mid the woodland shades 
With graceful, true and tapering lines. 
As California's sugar-pines— 
The Liriodendron skyward showers 
A thousand glorious tulip flowers. 

Tinted with orange, green and gold. 
Its cups a honeyed nectar hold, 
Where bee and humming-bird in tune 
Make glad the lightsome air of June. 
Each cup, amid the glistening leaves, 
A largess to the summer gives, 
For dews of heaven it receives. 
—Queen of all forests yet. to me, 
The Pennsylvania tulip-tree ! 



124 



IN THE WOODti. 

Nor one of all the thousand rills 
Amid the everlasting hills, 
Dashing from rock to rock their spray, 
Or stealing silently away ; 
From Ammonoosuc's windings shy- 
To Mercede's sources far and high 
Where sharp Sierras pierce the sky ; 
Not one, or all of these, whose praise 
Poets sing in tuneful lays, 
Shall quicken pulse of mine in joy, 
Like that one brook I knew as boy. 

The rill that all the livelong day 

With rocks and pebbles smooth at play, 

Made everlasting roundelay. 

Where oft I paddled " barefoot 1 ' feet, 

Built my mill and sailed my fleet, 

Just where the woods and meadows meet. 

On sweeter stream I ne'er shall look 

Than one little nameless brook, 

Whose springs of life were near to mine, 

—The brook that ran to Brandywine ! 




IX AULD LANG SYNE. 



The Lounger has been revisiting the pleasant haunts 
of his youth — in Chester County, Pennsylvania. It may 
be from the predilection of early association, but — after 
some extended journey ings in later years — he still returns 
to these scenes with the fancy that none elsewhere are 
fairer or sweeter. 

His headquarters from which to take varied excursions, 
are made at the old county-seat town of West-Chester. 
Would that the Lounger could make this charming little 
town known adequately to the world; but that is, humanly 
speaking, impossible. West- Chester is sui generis, diffi- 
cult to describe, and scarce to be compared. However, 
one might intimate, to mind of a New Englander, 
somewhat of its perfections by saying that, in a manner, 
it is a kindly-sedate and scientific-minded Pennsylvania- 
Quaker Northampton. This would convey but a limited 
notion of its characteristics; as might also the further 
statement that it has long possessed the finest collections 
of minerals and mortgage-bonds, and has always used 
the best microscopes and made the best ice-cream of any 
town in the Union. What more could heart — of any 
town — desire ! And yet some restless people — and there 
are always such in every community — were scarce satisfied 
even with this; and but lately would fain try the desperate 
experiment of a transfusion of ''new blood" — of "enter- 
prise," we think they called it — into its body politic and 

125 



j 2 6 iy A UZ B 1. 3 YNB. 

economic. The is to get -Board 

get out an adve g book of •• advan- 

tage What was peculiarly Quakerish about this, 

howevc Actually conrmed itself very closelv 

to the truth'! 

Had this :perim- :ransmogrifying it into a 

••nianufacturir.- : wn - would have badly 

spoiled it for a Lounger. But fori the healthy 

old borough survived the :k 3 and no a on still 

in its _ i old way- : [uiet improvement, while ts 

people continue to live well and live lor... — as before. 

— Wit .'dent roads throughout, charming dr: 

be taken in every direction from West Chester: along 

upland slo" - -haded woods, or dipping 

down into the valleys of rough lush mead 

_rant with the scent of mint, where the clear brooks 

_ and tinkling over their beds of pebbles. 

race all the- a in with ever new delight ! Four 

d the southward :ne to the valley of the 

Brandv : the point famed - Revo- 

d the heights of Birmingham, 
overlooking the valley, still stands the old "Meeting- 
Hotj : dark bluish-gray stone, around which the 

mbat cer. and in whose grave-yard 

adjoining, many of those who fell were buried, almost 
indiscriminatelv. Xear by, Lafayette was wounded, and 
when the American lines were here broken, Washington, 

and compelled to retreat, 
uncovering Philadelphia to the the British. 

On the roun :he wain 

Whose boughs have rustled in every br-r 
Through a nunc: ~ orm and calm — 

Star - of Birmingham. 



IN AULD L. 

By 

eman m I 
- trampled turf. -«_ 

.e and L:t 

ig-1 Left 8m 

O:' >od. on : ; 

r farmer. 
Still holds his _ im. 

* - * * * * * 

Cr _ the Brandywine. and retracing to the ird 

i few miles, the previous march that morning, of the 
columns of Cornwallis and Knyphausen, brings us to 

•od, near the site of Old Kenne* use. 

Longwood is almost the only home and assembly-place 
of the Pro_ Friends. This sec: — indeed 

that might be called which creed has none " (to misquote 
Milton) — was a "liberal -hoot from the QuaV. 

during the later Abolition period, and though quite 
limited in numbers, for awhile made '-quite a noise 
in the world:" embracing among its speakers at its annual 
reunions, many noted and gifted Reform, The 

building is but a modest frame structure, while just across 
the road is Longwood B Ground. hest kn 

as the last : f Bayard Taylor. 

The scenery of th: vhile am] 

has been fortunate in securing three poets for 
two of them, Buchanan Read and Bayard Taylor, 
belonging to it by birth, and the third, John G. W 
by long-time association with its people. Among the 
latter - he venera: air whom he has 

celebrated in his •• Golden Wedding ngwo<: 

•Fair falls on Kennev . s 

The mellow sunset of your - 



I2 8 IN AULD LANG >SYNE. 

The mastery of the portrayer of scenery, the born 
"poet of places," is evidenced by the manner in which 
Whittier sees and seizes the salient characteristics of a 
section, and thereby pictures the whole in a very few 
words: 

"Again before me with your nanies fair Chester's landscape comes, 
Its meadows, woods and ample barns, and quaint stone-builded homes : 
The smooth-shorn vales, the wheaten slopes, the boscage green and soft, 
Of which their poet sings so well from towered Cedarcroit. 1 ' 

But none sings it better than Whittier himself. In 
these four lines he misses little else than the clear-flowing 
streams, which, indeed, are scarce distinctive — being 
shared as well by New York and New England. 

Bayard Taylor's grave is marked only by a plain low 
granite column, relieved by a medallion portrait in bronze. 
On one side lies the love of his boyhood, his first wife, 
Mary Agnew, whom he married upon her death-bed. 
On the other, is buried his brother, Fred Taylor, Colonel 
of the First Pennsylvania (Bucktail) Regiment, who fell, 
bravely leading it on the first day of the fight at Gettys- 
burg. On his monument, no less than four tributes are 
rendered by admiring poet-friends — R. H. Stoddard, 
George H. Boker, Phebe Cary, and his brother. Bayard 
himself can well afford to sleep there without further 
memorial on his tomb than the simple inscription thereon: 
"Being dead, he yet speaketh; "—for many loving brother 
poets have embalmed his memory in verse, whose lines 
will live in literature. Among these comes to memory 
those of Whittier, addressing the neighboring scene: 
" Oh vale of Chester trod by him so oft- 
Green as thy June turf keep his memory ! Let 
Nor wood, nor dell, nor storied stream forget, 
Nor winds that blow round lonely Cedarcroft ! " 



IN AULD LANG SYNE. I2 p 

And so we make next, a short pilgrimage to "lonely," 
"towered Cedarcroft;" the home which Bayard Taylor 
made in the days of his prosperity, returning to dwell 
amid the scenes of his boyhood. The road we follow, 
traverses many of the scenes he describes in his own 
"Story of Kennett. " 

The house stands about a mile north of the village of 
Kennett Square, a station on the Phila. & Baltimore Central 
Railway. Bayard's only child, his daughter Lillian, has 
married in Germany; her mother also has returned to 
her native German land, and Cedarcroft has passed into 
the ownership of an eminent Philadelphia surgeon, now 
retired from practice. Evidently the doctor's ideas of 
"a fine place" are nearer the conventional ones than 
were those of Bayard Taylor. The native wildness of 
the fine woods which the poet loved, has been sacrificed. 
Some of his "immemorial chestnuts," which "westward" 
stood "a mount of shade," have been cut into rails; the 
underbrush in front has been cleared off, and the noble 
oaks trimmed up, so as to afford a vista of the mansion 
from the road. - 

The old farm gate at the entrance, has given place to 
a beautiful "porter's lodge." The house, a somewhat 
irregular pile of brick, two stories in height, with its "ivy- 
mantled tower," is, however, apparently much as Bayard 
had it, in the days he entertained therein right royally — 
too hospitably indeed, for his purse — his friends and 
fellow poets. 

-& ■;',': % $i t'.t 7p $ %: 

On the slope of a hill, three miles north of Cedarcroft, 
still stands an old two-story brick school-house. In this 
building, known as Unionville Academy, Bayard Taylor 
received, after the district school, all the education 

10 



! o IN A ULD LA NG IS YNE. 

afforded him within walls. Its principal — Jonathan Gause r 
an old Quaker — was, as the Lounger recalls him, an 
almost perfect type of the school-master in Goldsmith's. 
1 'Deserted Village," in his ponderous dignity and severity, 
tempered withal by that enthusiasm for learning which 
seldom fails to arouse the latent ambition of the scholar. 

In the lower story of the academy building, a district 
school was kept; and there, as an urchin of tender years, 
the Lounger first made acquaintance with Bayard Taylor, 
then a youthful pedagogue of seventeen. This teaching- 
was but for a term that bridged over an interval between 
his own schooling and going to learn the trade of printer. 

Two years passed by, wherein the writer had graduated 
one step — or rather a whole flight of stairs — upward into 
the Academy, where Bayard had studied. One day the 
Lounger, whilst at the principal's desk, by special favor, 
reciting his Telemaquc, found his lesson interrupted, as a 
fresh-faced stripling came in to bid his old preceptor 
"good-bye." It was Bayard Taylor! With many 
misgivings, his father had bought off his "time" as- 
apprentice at the printing office, and now he was off to 
see Europe, "With Knapsack and Staff !" In those days, 
and among that steady-going people, the tour of Europe 
meant far more than a journey around the world now-a- 
days, and such an undertaking for young Taylor, with 
his means — or rather with his lack of means — seemed, to 
the Quakers of Marlborough and Kennett, in the highest 
degree Quixotic. In a moment he had quietly passed 
out of the school-room, and into the region — in our 
youthful imaginations — where dwelt unexplored mystery 
and romance. 

Another two years — and our old academy is all excited 
by a visit from Bayard Taylor. His letters of travel — 



IN A UL D LANG 8 YN£. j - T 

compiled into a volume entitled "Views Afoot"— have 
become very popular, and kindly favored by the literary 
world, from the freshness of their observation and the 
novelty of their point of view. The young American 
who, making the tour of Europe on foot, has written so 
pleasantly of his experiences, is the literary sensation of 
the day. In our eyes, he has achieved fame, for he has 
published a book ! From this on, the world is familiar 
with the literary and personal career of the poet-traveler. 
In the old Academy, the teachers would sometimes take 
the new scholar to a special section of one of the long 
pine desks, lift up the lid showing the initials carved on 
the inside thereof, and say: -I give you the seat of 
Bayard Taylor ! " 

It is not within the Lounger's present scope— which is 
simply one of reminiscence— to render any estimate of 
Taylor's character and abilities. Poet, traveler, novelist, 
biographer, lecturer, editor and critic— so truly versatile 
as to be eminent in many fields— time will determine, ere 
long, his true place in literature. Minister of the United 
States to one of the great empires of the world; his 
country's honored representative in that land where once, 
a poor stranger youth, he toiled on foot from town to 
town; and, finally, his obsequies thronged by great ones 
of the earth;— the writer would praise and honor Bayard 
Taylor to-day, in recollection, not chiefly for his talents 
and achievements— worthy as they were— but for one 
thing, than which his life held nothing worthier or 
manlier. It was that in the day of his assured success, 
when culture had graced and fame had crowned him, he 
forgot not to love and cherish the humble country girl, 
the companion of his youth, who had given him in those 
early days her maiden love and faith. The pages of his 



132 



IN ATJLD LANG SYNE. 



"Poet's Journal" still speak eloquently his life-time 
tender memories of the early loved and lost. 

****** *%ifc 

One of the features of this section, in primitive days 
and down to the Lounger's boyhood, was the prevalence 
of the old-time country inn or "tavern. " This prevailed, 
indeed, from the old Colonial period down to the advent 
of the railroad, which rendered obsolete the old thorough- 
fare of travel — the turnpike road with its Conestoga 
wagon. 

These ancient hostelries, devoted in those days to the 
1 'entertainment of man and beast, " survived their legitimate 
use, deteriorating to the entertainment of man only in 
such manner as tended to confound him with the "beast." 
Briefly, they survived simply as drinking places, where 
the rural population were too often tempted into habits 
of loafing and tippling. This was their dark page of 
history. Now they are fast passing away; an enlightened 
public sentiment seeing no occasion for licensing them 
longer. Their venerable, tall, framed sign-posts, with 
the "sign" swinging and creaking in the wind, have been 
taken down. These signs, with their appellations, were 
curiously reminiscent of old England, as commemorated 
by Dickens: — The Red Lion — the Black Bear — the White 
Horse — the Ship — the Anvil — the Sickle and Sheaf — the 
Hammer and Trowel ! The similitude of these things, as 
painted on the sign by the local artist, was often some- 
thing wonderful to behold ! 

As reminiscent, too, of " Merrie England," as is the 
scenery of this section, are the old hawthorn hedges 
which prevailed here as in no other portion of the United 
States. These are fast being supplanted by Osage- 
orange; and only occasionally now may you find some 



IN A ULD LANG 8 YNE. j~~ 

ancient ones, grown almost into trees, where yon may sit 
"beneath the hawthorn's shade." 

The local names here— especially those of counties and 
townships— were largely "brought over" by Penn and 
his companions, from their old homes:— Berks, Bucks, 
York, Lancaster and Chester being names of prominent 
shires in England. The emigrant of all times has been 
glad to remind himself in every way possible of the land 
he left behind. "The skies change but not the man." 
—The Lounger is no exception to this feeling: 

To me, though wand'ring East or West, 

Where Nature spreads her choicest, best, 

No mounts a fairer prospect show 

Than thy north fields, East Marlboro' ; 

Whence Bradford towns and Laurel woods. 

And Newlin's meadows, wet with floods, 

But heighten th' opposing scene, 

Where plains of FaUowfield lie green, 

With Doe Run Valley spread between; 

And westward rise, like sloping lawn, 

The hills of Highland and of Cain ! 

How oft in boyhood's early day, 
I viewed those hills ten miles away. 
And longed for all the world unknown 
That lay beyond Their purple zone ! 
* * * * =:-• # # * 
That world unknown has come to me 
From Eastern hills to Western • 
In manhood sought, th' horizon shifts- 
Its purple glamour fades— and lifts. 
Onward !— the glamour lifts, and fades,— 
Till age draws on with twilight shades. 

Hap] rm.3, 

Earth's glamour rests on land or s< 

To eye of faith, the -lory lies 

On world unknown beyond the skies. 



BY THE SEA. 



'• Spirit that breathest through my lattice— thou 

That coolest the twilight of the sultry day,— 
Gratefully flows thy freshness 'round my brow : 

Thou hast been out upon the deep at play. 
Riding all day the rough blue waves, till now. 

Roughening their crests and scattering high their spray, 
Aud swelling the white sail— I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea I" 

Familiar to memory since boyhood, these lines with 
which Bryant opens his address "To the Evening Wind," 
came fondly to the lips of the Lounger, one recent 'eve- 
ning, as the train which had borne him over weary miles 
of "scorched land" swept into the cool stone paved 
station of the West Jersey Railroad at Cape May. The 
"evening wind" was duly on hand to meet and greet us, 
together with the "smiling host," to whom we had 
telegraphed for rooms. In spite of Shenstone's famous 
saying, and though it is no doubt true that in point of 
importance the inns are justly one half the "inns and 
outs of travel," — at this season of "heated terms," the 
summum bonum of felicity consists in finding the welcome 
warm, but the rooms cool. 

And the supper-room too, was delightfully cool, as the 
descriminating waiter — with the possible anticipation of a 
future fee — placed us most favorably before an open win- 
dow looking directly out upon the ocean, and so near that 
the spray could almost dash in upon us, laden with that 

134 



BY THE SEA. I35 

salted scent that is so deliciously fresh when approached 
from the fevered land. Once more the sights and sounds 
and scents of the unforgotten sea are ours ! The 
rich hues of evening are deepening on the waters — blue 
waves come chasing each other shoreward, combing there 
into translucent green, and breaking into lines of foam. 
Farther out, the sea is picturesquely dotted with sailing 
craft; some with sails filled with the evening breeze, 
glistening in snowy white; others more distant, glimmering 
in ghostly gray— and yet others, hull down, with masts 
only peering above the horizon, telling freshly the tale 
of earth's convexity. It is a scene for a William T. 
Richards water-color — and indeed the visitor to the 
Metropolitan Museum can note in the series of Richards' 
sketches there exhibited, that he has reproduced nearly 
every possible peaceful effect of sea and shore and skv 
t > be witnessed on this Jersey coast, which he has long 
frequented. 

With all the aesthetic conditions so favorable, including 
the hotel table itself, the Lounger was enabled to "mate- 
rialize" a very fair supper, and the precedent then and 
there established has since been so consistently pursued, 
that there is now every prospect of his realizing an 
additional pound for every five dollars spent — which 
would be a very fair rate of exchange indeed, for a 
seaside season. 

******** 

With many visits since intervened, the Lounger is 
always freshly reminded here of his first trip to Cape 
May, made a score or two of years ago, in his early days 

of diffidence — in his green and callow youth. This as 

is well known — is an old-time resort, and was then a 
famous and fashionable watering-place. As a bov on his 



136 BY THE SEA. 

father's farm, he had heard of its charms, and determined 
to "take in" a few of its enjoyments, in the interregnum 
"betwixt the walnuts and the wine" — the wheat and oats 
harvests. He had, indeed, to spare but a few days and 
a few dollars, which latter would not reach very far 
at any of the long, tall-pillared caravanseries which then 
lined its shore, in the fashion that continues to the- 
present. 

But the little glimpse of watering-place life there 
afforded him, showed in dazzling and bewildering colors 
to the neophyte. There were hops in the dining-room, 
after it was cleared, in the evenings, and the unacquainted 
Lounger stood at the open door as if it were the gate of 
Paradise— longing, but not venturing in — even though a 
gilded youth from the city, whose acquaintance he had 
made on the boat, kindly but patronizingly invited him 
to "join in." (The Lounger now shrewdly guesses this 
gay young fashionable to have been a clerk from some 
Market street grocery.) 

Most unwillingly, however, he left this enchanted 
ground for home — first paying, of course, his bill at the 
office. That could hardly have been a long one, so soon; 
neither was it "as wide as a church door, but it wa> 
enough." It was deep enough to reach almost to the 
bottom of the pocket of the young man from the farm; 
but after all, he did not "mind" that half so much as the 
careless remark with which that genial but gorgeous clerk 
in the office sped the parting guest: " You dont stay long 
with us, Mr. Lounger ! " 

Long years have flown since then, and that clerk has 
possibly ere this "disremembered" his casual, and 
perhaps, politely meant remark; but you see the Lounger- 
has not! With some murmured reply about urgen' 



BY THE SEA. 



137 



business requiring his presence in his city counting-house, 
he turned his back upon that celestial scene — with that 
vivid (and it seemed to him unfeeling) sentence ringing 
in his ears: "You dont stay long with us, Mr. Lounger ! " 
$ * * ***** 

Alack ! Cape May is still here with its long colonnaded 
hotels, its bands of music, its hops and its throngs — the 
latter not so much increased since other resorts have 
multiplied — but the youthful glamour is all off with the 
Lounger ! These people are not princes and princesses, 
nor even lords and ladies in disguise. They are simply 
good, common-place, every-day folk taking their recrea- 
tion — dipping and tumbling around in the surf with quite 
unromantic abandon in the mornings, and lounging in the 
halls after dinner, with paper novels hugged to their 
bosoms (as Howell notes), the fore-finger still holding the 
spot where the sensation flagged. 

And these giddy girls in tennis suits, "having a good 
time" in their own "careless and happy" fashion; — are 
these the beautiful fairies, the "angels without wings " of 
the Lounger's early vision ? It would seem not — and 
yet possibly they closely resemble their mothers and 
grandmothers, — and it is only "the grave stranger come 
to see the play place of his" boyhood, that has changed 
after all ! 

One tiling he will scarce dispute, — -that people seem to 
be taking their summer holiday in a comfortable, and on 
the whole, sensible fashion here at Cape May. Either 
because the tide of extreme fashion has deserted this for 
newer resorts, or for some other reason, there appears to 
be less show and more substance in the enjoyment here. 
This is now, at least, a good, sensible, comfortable place 
for those who come to the seaside for recreation in rest. 



i38 



BY THE SEA. 



And whatever other changes the years may have 
wrought and brought, the ocean is here just the same as 
ever — still rolling its tireless waves on this noblest stretch 
of beach on the Atlantic coast; here with its freshening 
inspiring breezes, and its thousand charms of changing 
sky, reflected by morn, noon and eve in changing sea. 
Even with its grotesque groups in the foreground, rolling 
like so many porpoises in the breakers, it refuses to be 
vulgarized. An old-time Lounger, whose point of view 
may have changed on many things, can be thankful that 
nature here is still unchanged for him ! That — 
" The radiant beauty shed abroad, 

On all the glorious works of God, 

Shows freshly to his sobered eye 

As e'er it did in days gone by." 



IN THE SURF. 



In the year 1609, Henry Hudson, a distinguished 
English mariner, on his third voyage to this country, 
attempted to enter the Delaware and subsequently landed 
at what is now known as Cape May, after he had narrowly 
escaped losing his gallant galliot, the "Half Moon," by 
ship-wreck. Fourteen years later, Cornelius Jacobson 
Mey, a Dutch navigator, rounded the south point of 
New Jersey, and named it after himself. He called 
what is now the Delaware, South Bay, and the mouth of 
the Hudson, North Bay; hence we still have the name 
North River for that stream which empties into the 
latter. The first European proprietors obtained this 
part of New Jersey from nine Indian chiefs by actual 
purchase. During the iSth century, the Cape attracted 
the attention of fishermen who were engaged in captur- 
ing whale, blackfish and sea-lions which then abounded 
in her waters. 

The above is history, and is largely drawn, as is most 
of the historical and statistical matter of the Lounger's 
essays, from the local guide-book. Whenever you find 
him unusually replete with facts, you may set it down 
that he has been reinforcing his own splended memory of 
events that transpired in the last century, with some acqui- 
sitions from the guide-book. It is altogether the safest way. 

Notwithstanding, however, that the above cited is 
history, it does not inevitably follow that it may not be 

139 



4° 



IN THE SURF. 



true. The Lounger would carefully guard the mind of 
the young reader against the impression that whatever is 
set down in the books as history is necessarily false. A 
strong presumption in favor of the authenticity of the 
above narrative lies in the fact that it does not pretend to 
claim that Captain John Smith discovered Cape May. 
The Lounger believes that this point is the only one 
along the Atlantic coast which this veracious and ubiqui- 
tous traveler failed to touch upon, either in his vessel or 
his Narrative. We are referring now, of course, to the 
original story-telling John Smith, and not to his multitud- 
inous namesake of the New York city directory. Even 
the latter's "funeral knell," if tolled, would be too long 
a story altogether. 

About ninety years age (to be exact) an old Quaker 
farmer, living inland a few miles from Cape May, used 
to come down to the shore to bathe in the surf. The 
neighbors regarded this as a very strange and rather 
dangerous freak withal. Even large vessels had been 
known to go to pieces in the breakers — and why not this 
crank ? They used to follow him down on the chance of 
seeing this happen. Some of them doubtless were 
wreckers or wreck-savers by profession, and ready to 
claim the pieces, or salvage. They used to assemble 
thus on the beach to the number of twenty or more — 
say twenty-three to be exact — of a morning, on such 
occasions. Finding that the man came out all right and 
that it "would wash," they gradually took to imitating 
him. Hence the origin of surf-bathing ! 

The above is tradition. Tradition is not always as 
unreliable as history, but generally runs it very close. 
The difference, as the Lounger apprehends it, is about 
thus. — With history, either the circumstance took place in 



IN THE SURF. 



141 



time and manner, and with the person indicated, or else 
it is absolutely false. With tradition, the circumstance 
probably transpired, or something like it; but, perhaps, 
a thousand miles away, a thousand years before, to a 
thousand other fellows. So it may be strictly true in a 
race sense, though slightly incorrect in an individual one. 

Now, like the William Tell myth, this tradition of the 
origin of surf-bathing may not be properly located in 
jersey at all, but may have happened in Sweden or Syria, 
to some of our Aryan or Unitarian ancestors. But they 
tell it down at Cape May all the same. 

Anyway the custom has grown and multiplied until 
now-a-days we, who are of the ''interior department," 
no longer "go down into the sea in ships," but in bathing 
dresses ! Some of these are not exactly in "ship-shape" 
either. The whole Atlantic coast is being parceled out 
into bathing and watering-place stations — "cities by the 
sea." Every few miles, already you come upon them 
anew, sown thick "as leaves in Vallambrosa," or as 
empty tin cans around a western town on the plains. In 
a few years more Whittier might find no spot left where 
he could pitch his "Tent Upon the Beach." 

— Were the Lounger an artist — a Clays, an Achenbach, 
a Richards or DeHaas, for instance — the world would 
soon be the richer for his sojourn by the sea. What 
magnificent marines he would then paint ! Even if onlv 
a skilled amateur, he would still be attempting to imitate 
Rehn, or Bricher, or Niccoll, in transfixing upon paper 
some hint of the wondrous effects that enchant his eyes; 
translating some of the thousand harmonies of tint — the 
rich colors of water — into appropriate water-colors. As 
it is, he is only an "impressionist," with but little faculty 
of reproducing his impressions. 



EVENING AT CAPE MAY. 



I. 

Rich gleams of gold upon a western sky, — 
Broad stretch of gold upon a quiet sea; — 

Shore-seeking waves thai softly break and die 
In flaky foam that melts upon the lea: 
Dieth the Day as soft and tranquilly! 

The stars and crescent moon come out on high; 
The beacons on the Sea-Wall shine,- ami far 
Across the bay, Henlopen's ruddy star 

Kindles, and signals eve's departing light: 

Slowly, on land and sea, descends the Night! 



II. 

A leaden sky hangs o'er a leadei 

Keen lightnings quiver over wave and land; 
Deep thunders roar, — and thunders ceaselessly 

A sullen surf, hard beating on the sand; 

Before the gale the ,u r ull drifts aimlessly; — 

The tides of rain and surge meet on the strand; 
— A murk of storm blots out Henlopen light, 
And all the world fast darkens into night. 



142 



A r ST. A! Gl - I INK. 



• in's Hi' >ss grown wail 

The tiilc^ of 0< lid fall: 

\s lapping of the tides, Tim 
The course of empires, dynasti< 
They rise, they fall, and who shall 
i me, who lenoweth yesterday, 

law and shall to morrow know. 
Whether th( ebb and flow 

Shall bear our ' I 

To "heig - 

< )r. late or soon, the Right defied, 

dl crumble every mount of pridi 
Ami whelm her in Oblivion's tide! 

i ng tlie memories of her reign, 

QOnarch of the land and main. 

Queen of two hemisphei »ud Spain ! 

The centuries have come ami gone, 
Claiming her conquests one by one. 

all her deeds of valor d< 
Mere on our shores beneath the sun, 
One massive fort ^\ mouldering stone 

Preserves her memory one alone, — 
San Marco, now Fori Marion. 
****** 



L4S 



i 4 4 



AT 8l\ AUaUXTINE. 

Without command or tap of drum, 
Phantoms in armor, rayless, dumb, 
How Fancy's shadowy legions come ! 
It needs not captain, troop and gun 
To give the Old Fort garrison. 

Lone figure from thronged History's page; 

Last watch-tower of the Middle Age; 

An outpost of a force withdrawn; 

A lingerer, who waits alone, 

Unconscious of his comrades gone; 

A sentinel with ward to keep, 

Who slept the centuries' dreamless sleep,— 

Still standing thus, so silent, grim, 

As Sleep and Death were one to him: 

'Twixt waters blue and meadows green, 

Thus stands thy Fort — St. Augustine ! 




INNS AND OUTS OF EUROPE. 



When books of travel are full of inns, atmosphere and 
motion, they are as good as any novel. 



-Augustine Birr ell. 



11 



BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 



Too early for the play ! Musing I sit 

'Mid hollow silence and a half-lit gloom, 

While shadowy ushers move about the room. 

Seating the early comer as they flit. 

Unreal all the aspects of the place 

Save one, whereon what pictured fair might seem, 

A. southern land of mountain and of stream, 

Some artist bold the curtain fain would trace. 

What though the painter crude in color be ! 

Now while the music swells into a tune, 

Heard once in far-off land 'neath summer moon, 

I blend his scene with hues of memory. 

So, mellowing hour and throbbing tune and he 

Draw back my heart, fair Italy, to thee ! 

* * * * * # * * * * 
Brightest of visions yet to me— 
A scene of panoramic glory— 
Of emerald hills and summits hoary. 
Bold curving shore and promontory— 
The last fond glimpse of Italy. 
Thou comest back, Lake Maggiore : 

How sparkle in the sun thy waves. 
Or lap the shining sands so stilly ! 
What tender glow of color bathes 
Thy far-off towns — or nearer, laves 
The wall of tower and campanile ! 

The blue of distant mountain range 
Whose summits to the clouds are given, 
Makes.. symphony, in subtlest change, 
With blue of lake and blue of heaven. 

146 



FORE THE IN. 

lore's tinted tide, 
His oars a Btalwart boatman plied, 
Wl >red by t awning, 

A lounging tourist stretched be 

In light and shade, a glorious bay 
Encircled by the mountains, lay 
The lake .dor 

i big hours of Bummer day. 

bowers 
ckward from 

The - islands. 

Ablaz 

As i astward in the drew, 

The farther mountains lift in view,— • 
The flve-cleft peak of Monte Kosa 
And other Alpine heights he knew— 

boatman fain would tell— 
The Fahlhorn and the Mi-- 

Usl bold m front. S ro 

Is lake and Lovelj all well. 

But ere the traveler seek-- I 

it.' Mont Leone, 
i wind-swept realm of dashb at, 

A bhat guard Simp] 

ir— and b irop the our— 

re Intra's pro [ ire; 

Float idly by Pallanza' : — 

be mind 

Sha he dinim 

Of \ 'er were liin; 

By a • ash -in ; - try; 

Of beau; at curve and trend. 

Of pearly peaks that heavenward tend— 
es that arch and downward bend— 

(At rose of dawn or gold of even 

When Hushes all the face of heaven) 

Reflecting all their radiant glory 

In thy fair face— Lake Magglor< ! 



H7 



148 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 

Up goes the curtain ! As its folds arise 
My vision fades— the music sinks, and dies. 
Italia' s sunny skies I view no more, 
But moonlit ramparts of cold Elsinore: 
A northern air "with mystery is rife 
And all the portents of the tragic life. 

What is the real? Not life's usual pace— 
This slow procession of the commonplace ! 
Let Life move faster with a A-aried train ! 
Vanish the Present ! Give us hack again 
That fuller life of passion, joy and pain; 
That pulsing life replete, come player, bring ! 
With mad unrest of Prince and guilt of King ! 

Such is the Drama's— such the Player's power: 

His fancy thralls us for one magic hour. 

This is the actual — this, that stirs and moves 

To the soul's depths— these deepest hates and loves 

That sway the heart to joy, the hand to strife ! 

Aught less is dream— this is the real life ! 

Oh power of Genius ! While unreal seems 
My real past as is the land of dreams— 
Thou peoplest all the living world for me 
With forms that never were, hut ave shall be ! 




MINE EASE IX MINE INN. 



"Whoe'er lias traveled life's dull round, 
Where'er hi may have been; 

May sigh to think he still has found 
The wannest welcome at an Inn." 

This is not the first time, by any means that Shenstone's 
cynic linos have been quoted. They have just been 
brought freshly to the Lounger's recollection, through 
being cited anew in an artistic circular, charmingly 
illustrated, descriptive of the Ponce de Leon hotel of St. 
Augustine, which is said to be the finest hostelry in the 
world. 

It would be a great pleasure to the Lounger to respond 
to this ''card of invitation," and renew his acquaintance 
with Florida and that delightfully quaint old town, one 
of the oldest on this continent — through the medium of 
a visit at the Ponce de Leon, the Cordova and the 
Alcazar; — or, at least one of those "Spanish-Moresque 
Palaces, set amidst the luxuriance of the orange, the palm 
and the vine," — with their "courts, plazas, marbles, 
mosaics, fountains, etc.," — all "Spanish of the Renais- 
sance, period. " As all these palaces are now under one 
ownership, it makes but little difference to Mr. Flagler 
which invitation the Lounger may accept— while "the 
best is none too good" for him. Yet inasmuch as. 
unfortunately, the "warmest welcome" of the Ponce de 
Leon, costs twenty-five dollars per <//<•///— with no manner 

149 



iSo 



MINE EASE IN MINE INN. 



of welcome, of any mercurial degree whatsoever, on hand 
at less figure than eight dollars — the Lounger shall 
perforce have to stay where the temperature is a trifle 
cooler; at least until he can market his corn at over 
sixteen cents per bushel. Some writer once remarked 
that "Home, sweet home" was a good place, "however 
homely" — or words to that effect! 

And yet, the Lounger, without going all the way with 
Shenstone, has some rather pleasant associations with 
hotels. After all, when you are far away from home, on 
a foreign soil — hungry, tired and sleepy after a long day's 
tramp or travel — the homely, country inn, or even the city 
hotel may prove a passable substitute for a home — on a 
pinch — and, at all events, beats staying out doors all 
night by a great majority. 

For instance — take that dingy and dreary old Queen's 
Hotel in London ! Somebody had recommended it to 
us when we went abroad, so we sojourned there for a 
season, and might have been much more miserable. If 
you are going to spend much time in the world's metropolis, 
the Lounger would advise you to take two hotels. Not 
both at once; that prescription might too much deplete 
your system — of finance. Quarter yourself, for part of 
your stay, at one of the caravanseries in the vicinity of 
Trafalgar Square, and you will be in convenient proximity 
and striking distance of many of the most interesting and 
enjoyable sights of modern London; the picture galleries, 
Regent Street, Pall Mall, "Green Pastures and Picca- 
dilly," and a dozen others; as well as the more historic 
Parliament Houses, and Westminster Abbev. 

But after you have "loafed and invited your soul" to 
your heart's content with these, then move down, bag 
and baggage, to the heart of Old London, the East City! 



JUNE EASE IN JUNE INN. 



151 



And there, for "Headquarters in the saddle" — you may 
find the quaint old Queen's Hotel as good as any. It is 
by no means fine — in a modern American sense, you may 
say it is hardly comfortable — but it is a part of, and in 
harmony with its surroundings; it shares in that atmos- 
phere of the Past, which still lingers and envelopes the 
region in which it abides. It is, indeed, rather stuffy 
and contracted — it is "neither as deep as a well nor as 
wide as a church door, but it will suffice; " — especially if, 
like the Lounger, you have some toleration, yea, even 
affection, for things old and staid and set in their ways — 
good, stiff, old-fashioned ways, which, British though they 
be, were once those of our grandfathers' grandfathers — 
that we have outgrown and discarded long since. . So if 
you put up there, you will end by putting up with them. 
Geographically, the Lounger will locate the "Queen's" 
for you, by stating that it is immediately opposite the 
General Post-office, in St. Martin's le Grand, and directlv 
between "Angels" on the one hand and "Bull and 
Mouth " Street on the other. There you have its situation, 
and who would wish a better ! It is full within the glad 
sound of Bow Bells; — on your right, St. Paul's is scarce 
distant a stone's-throw; — farther away, to the left, is 
Smithfield, about whose "market," dead beeves now 
hang where heretic martyrs once burned; — just east of 
you is Guildhall; — down in front, Cheapside will lead 
you on to the Bank of England and all the money- 
changers of the world; while if you prefer to "take the 
back track," Newgate Street will land you at its prison, 
or at least give you a sharp turn into the Old Bailey ! 
. Extend the radius but a little, and you reach Blackfriars, 
the Temple, Fleet Street, Holborn, the Charter-House, 
Finnsbury; — or London Bridge, Billingsgate, the Tower, 



i5 2 



MINE EASE IN JUNE INN. 



Eastcheap, Whitechapel, indeed ! You are within the 
historic bounds of the old City Wall, — you have the 
"freedom of the city," and may go where you list, 
provided you can thread the crowd by day, and take a 
policeman for safety by night. 

Inside the old inn everything is awkward and incon- 
venient until you get accustomed to things not where you 
would naturally expect, but somewhere else. There is 
the dark statue of a man-in-armor that greets you in the 
hallway as you enter ! There is the railed and partitioned 
"bar" in the center, just as Dickens describes it; with 
its liquids and its solids; its spirits and ale and stout; 
its cold joints and cheeses and dishes; with many odd 
and out-of :the-way things, kept there because they would 
seem to have no other and more appropriate place. 
And therein stands the prim old-maid bar-maid, who 
will answer your questions civilly, and give you informa- 
tion in crisp, bitten-off sentences, or tell you, more 
frequently, "I dont know sir, I'm sure." Also she will 
hand you out your letters when they come, and sell you 
paper and envelopes to write your answers — for "they 
never give nothing for nothing" in any English hotel. 

And then, you may stumble up the steep, narrow stair- 
case, with the edges all worn off by the wear of long 
years, to the coffee-room above;— and there you will be 
waited upon by the silent Will-yum, — the waiter, not the 
historic Him of Orange — who will wait upon you with 
more than the habitual reserve and slowness of the 
British waiter; and to all your questions he will answer, 
"I dont know sir, I'm sure." 

" Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow; " what was the 
matter with Will-yum? "Remote," he generally was — 
at the other end of the room when wanted, — slow he 



MINE EASE IN JUNE INN. 



1 S3 



was and preternaturally slow, — but why apparently so 
"unfriended and melancholy," we never knew! Per- 
chance,, like the "oyster" he so much resembled, he 
may have been "crossed in love;" but more likely it was 
that they had stopped off his beer. 

In the little, stuffy parlor alongside, we make the 
acquaintance of almost our only fellow-guests that 
frequent it — an old couple perfectly in keeping with the 
inn itself. The kindly, chatty old lady tells us that they 
are from Banbury Cross, that famous home of the 
"bun," and the haunt of that other old lady of nursery- 
rhyme, who mounted thereat a "white horse," long ere 
the "red-headed girl" had ever discovered and become 
associated with one in history. Her heart warmed to us 
Americans, because they had a son over here on the 
same continent; and becoming confidential, she told us 
that she and her spouse had been coming up to London 
annually, for a visit, for the past thirty years, and they 
always stopped there at the "Queen's." That her 
husband was much respected at Banbury, and was withal 
quite a scholar, which she was not. That he had written 
much for the papers, and once had a letter in the Times. 
"It were summat about 'the land,' or the Malt Tax" she 
believed, and "he do think the country have been injured 
bad by the way they do go on in Parliament." Although 
far from being her admired husband's equal in learning, 
she confessed that she had brought him quite "a nice 
little pot of money," when they married, which had given 
him quite a good start in the world. "When I was a 
slip of a lass," she continued — and so forth, and so on — 
in charming reminiscence ! And after, she kindly intro- 
duced us to her husband, whom the Lounger found a 
very intelligent, though somewhat ponderous talker, with 



J 54 



JUNE EASE IN MINE INN. 



much information upon "the land " question, and decided 
views of his own, that the duty should never have been 
taken off from hops. And, later on, they give us a most 
hospitable invitation to visit them at Banbury Cross — 
which we feel compelled to decline for want of time, 
and regret the fact ever afterward. 

As the night draws on outside, we sit by the window 
and look out on quiet St. Martin's le Grand, and on to 
the glittering corner of Cheapside, whose muffled roar is 
ever in our ears. But oftener, just across the street, we 
watch the yard at the rear of the general post-office, and 
the red vans driving up by the dozen; each driver taking 
his accustomed place to get his special cargo of the night- 
mail, with which he will soon clatter off swiftly to his 
"own appointed station," — one of the great railway 
stations of London, from whence depart the trains to 
every part of the kingdom, connecting with every corner 
of the earth. 

And as you watch these, you will wonder which one of 
the vans is taking out your letter — the letter you wrote 
this afternoon to the dear folks at home, describing your 
first experiences in London. And then, just then, if you 
are a Lounger, you will have a feeling of home-sickness 
and loneliness come over you as a very small, strange 
unit in a very large babel and wilderness of a world. 
You almost wish that you could get on that van and 
follow your letter homeward yourself. "Warmest wel- 
come," indeed! You know where that is to be found! 

But the old couple from Banbury have already had 
their "jorum," their "night-cap" of brandy and hot 
water, brought in by the silent Will-yum, and have gone 
off to their rest. So you take your candle off the table, 
and stumble up another flight of stairs, and along narrow 



MINE EASE IN MINE INN. 



155 



corridors with many turnings, with an occasional odd 
and unexpected step or two ascending or descending 
seemingly on their own account, - -finding your own room 
at last, to go to sleep and dream of "home and friends 
around you." 

^ $z ;K :|: ^: $c ;■< ■% ^ 

This, you say is, however, but a Lounger's experience 
of several years agone, and things would be different 
there now ! Not a bit of it. Things dont change down 
there in the heart of the Old City. "It may be for 
years, and it may be forever;"— but the next time the 
Lounger goes, he expects still to find the old "Queen's" 
just there, alongside of the "Angels," and at the mouth 
of "Bull and Mouth Street." And there will be the 
slender, prim old bar-maid, not looking a day older; and 
William, the Silent, will bring in the breakfast — the Times 
and the rack of toast, the fried sole, the water-cress and 
the beefsteak — in just that same slow, dreary way as of 
old ! i\nd the Lounger will ask him again, after lo ! these 
many years: "William, what hour does the early morning 
train leave for Dover?" and William will answer: "I 
dont know, I'm sure sir, but there's the Times sir." 



BEFORE DAWN IN OLD LONDON. 



Said to the Lounger on the eve of his departure for 
Europe, a friend who had been "over" several years 
before: "If you wish to hear some of the most extraor- 
dinary English you ever listened to in your life, be sure 
and go to Billingsgate Market and hear its fish-women 
abuse each other; but go at five o'clock in the morning, 
for that is their hour." 

Just before leaving London for the Continent, the 
Lounger bethought himself of this advice, and anxious to 
prosecute his studies in Early English, laid out to lie 
down to rise up betimes, indeed, the next morning. 

Springing from bed in the old Queen's Hotel, with the 
impression that he had overslept, he hastily consulted 
his watch thereon. "By the dawn's early light," which 
seemed breaking over the chimney-pots to the east, the 
hands indicated already a quarter past five ! Hurriedly 
dressing, therefore, he stumbled down the steep stair-ways 
into the hall below. The dark statue of a man-at-arms 
in the front hall-way showed no surprise at this early 
advent, but the night-porter exhibited some in his coun- 
tenance. The latter, however, cheerfully unchained the 
hall door, and the Lounger was soon speeding along St. 
Martin's le Grand, between the solid edifices of the 
General Post-office and the General Telegraph. 

A few steps brought him in front of Sir Robert Peel's 
statue, on the spot formerly occupied by Cheapside 

156 



BEFORE DAWN IN OLD LONDON. 157 

Cross, erected by Edward the First. A little to the 
right, in St. Paul's Church-yard, in ancient days stood 
"Powle's Cross," and just beyond its site, rose that vast 
pile, with its soaring dome which dominates Old London. 

But the Lounger's course is first down the length of 
Cheapside, that thoroughfare which hitherto he had 
known so crowded and vociferous. Now, a wonderful 
transformation had come over that scene of multitudinous 
life and noisy activity. So silent, so deserted, one might 
almost be treading the streets of some Tadmor of the 
Desert, some excavated Pompeii of the buried Past ! 
Had the Lounger chosen any other hour of the twenty- 
four, he could scarce have found such absolute quietude 
as now, when his solitary footfalls echoed on the silent 
pavement; and yet methinks some, yea, many, early goers 
might be abroad at half-past five of a summer's morning ! 

Impressed by this unwonted solitude and stillness, the 
Lounger pursued his way, between many a stately ware- 
room and home of daily traffic — past the sign of " Dombey 
&Son," (" tailors," it seems — alack for dignified Dombey, 
Senior, whom he had always imagined a great city 
merchant at wholesale) until between Friday street and 
Bread street, we recall that hereabout, on our right, was 
the site of the famous old Mermaid tavern, haunted by 
its Club founded by "rare Ben Jonson," and frequented 
also by Raleigh, Dr. Donne, Beaumont, Fletcher, and 
another playwright not wholly unknown to fame. Surely 
if ghosts may walk — if ever in streets of Old Rome those 
of earlier time came forth to "gibber and squeak" at 
night or by early cock-crow — this silent, deserted Cheap- 
side should be the appropriate time and place for its 
numberless, historic, literary worthies to sally forth, once 
more to revisit "these traces of the moon," and of their 



I5 8 BEFORE DA WN IN OLD LONDON. 

own sadly obliterated footprints. Oh ! if ghosts like 
these could only troop forth, this morn, "sheeted" but 
in the ink-stained quartos or folios of their own production, 
how gladly would the Lounger lay hold on Him of the 
Globe Theater, to stay his course until that fitful, fateful 
question should be decided, once for all: "Did you, or 
did you not write Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth, et cetera and 
so-forth?" 

But the Lounger passed, and none of the Old Mermaid 
crew gave sign or token of their presence even in the 
spirit — in which, indeed, they were so apt to be at this 
hour of the morn when they had been "making a night 
of it." 

Indeed the only presence that appeared to the Lounger 
was that of a stalwart British policeman who, shortly 
after, rose up before him, when he had strolled off up 
King street toward Guildhall, and was contemplating 
that edifice with the speculative intent of entering to 
look up those curious old wooden statutes of gigantic 
Gog and Magog. "Policeman X " looked rather suspic- 
iously upon the stroller, as if he might be a prowling 
Fenian, intent upon blowing up, with dynamite, this lobe 
of the heart of London. 

By the way, if the Lounger was after an anatomic 
figure, he might venture to divide the aforesaid Heart 
into the Auricles (not oracles) of Guildhall, and the 
Ventricles of the Mansion House, — with the civic life- 
currents of the Metropolis systematically pulsing between 
them. 

Before this, however, the Lounger had left behind him, 
on the one hand, Bread street, — in which John Milton 
was born, — and, right opposite, Milk street, where Sir 
Thomas More first found experimentally what the street 



BEFORE DAWN IN OLD LONDON. 



J 59 



was named after, — and then passed St. Mary le Bow, 
whose bells once rang so plainly, "Turn again, Whitting- 
ton," but gave the Lounger no "turn" by admonishing 
him to go back! And there, close by, where the "big 
watch " sign projects over Cheapside, he got some solution 
of that problem of the silence; for the hands of that 
time-keeper showed the hour to be but 3:30, — and 
evidently he had inadvertently transposed, in his reading, 
the hands of his own watch, when he got out of bed at 
the Queen's ! 

What now to do ? Why, keep on and see somewhat 
more of London in her night-cap — Old London before 
the early dawn ! And here let the Lounger premise that, 
whilst nothing of adventure or of misadventure befell, 
the impression of the old town thus seen in its hour of 
preternatural stillness was itself a wonderful sensation, 
and one which the Lounger will not soon nor willingly 
forget. In the welcome absence of the hurrying, jostling 
thousands, he could roam and rove, hither and thither, 
or fast or slow, at his own sweet will, just as the roving 
lions roam about Persepolis- — according to the Irish 
orator Phillips, and Briton Riviere. 

Well then, he roamed on, past the Old Jewry and 
along where Cheapside narrows into the Poultry, that 
ancient "fowl" end of the old market street. And 
beyond the Poultry, as everybody knows, you come into 
that open hub of Old London, whence the spokes of 
streets radiate outward, and where stands the Mansion- 
House, the Royal Exchange (with the Great Duke's 
statute in front), and the Bank of England — that "hub" 
of the financial universe, — while nearly straight ahead is 
Lombard street, which is one of the biggest spokes in 
that wheel on which turn the world's exchanges. 



j6o BEFORE DAWN IN OLD LONDON. 

But the Lounger turns down the fine thoroughfare of 
King William Street instead. Just off this street, leads 
southward an insignificant alley, St. Swithin's Lane — 
whose mouth you might scarce discover, indeed — and a 
little way down this lane, by turning in under an archway, 
you come into a little open court, where facing you is 
Salter's Hall, one of the famous old Guild-Houses of 
London, while to the left is a long, low, plain-looking 
building that holds the most famous banking house of the 
world — Rothschild Brothers. The Lounger will scarce 
pause at this early hour to step into one of its little 
boxed-up reception rooms, where genial Mr. Silverthorn 
is wont to give him all his letters, as well as an instalment 
on his one Letter of Credit,— -but, instead, keep on down 
King William Street, toward London Bridge. 

Passing three or four other "lanes," when about half 
way down to the river, and at another open intersec- 
tion — there where you behold the statue of smug King 
William IV. — once stood the old Boar's-Head Tavern, 
at the head of Eastcheap. 

This, if we may believe the report of one William 
Shakespeare — and, truly, he was generally well versed in 
such — was once the resort of about as disreputable a 
crew as ever infested London. The landlady, a party 
by the name of Quickly — Mrs. Quickly, by courtesy — 
was, to say the least, no better than she should be nor 
half so well conducted as she should have been; while, 
for those she habitually entertained, we may say that, 
though some of them may have been high in rank, they 
were exceedingly "low down" in the way of morals — 
and of one in particular, "it were base flattery to call him 
a coward," a liar, a swindler, and a debauchee. 

Pray heaven that none of their loose and ribald crowd 



BEFORE DAWN IN OLD LOyDOft. 161 

are abroad to-night — Sir John Falstaff and his swaggerers, 
the Wild Prince and Poins, with their crazy revellers — 
for what mad pranks they might play upon us! It is 
enough for a modest Lounger in literature to meet such 
wild ghosts even in play — of "Henry IV." 

Now our street bends directly south toward the river. 
Through an opening to Fish Street Hill on our left, we 
see the tall Monument, erected to commemorate that 
blessing (in disguise) the Great Fire of London. At the 
next crossing below, London Bridge is just before us, 
flanked by flights of great stone steps descending to the 
Thames. Immediately to the left is the massive Hall of 
the "ancient and honorable" Fishmongers. Now the 
Lounger turns eastward, down Lower Thames Street. 
Chaucer, that past-master of Early English used to live 
here, you recollect, but has not now for some 500 years 
last past. And at last the Lounger arrives at Billingsgate 
Market; but lo, it is still dark and untenanted, and tall 
Policeman Y, who looks precisely like his brother, Police- 
man X, informs the Lounger that an hour later will be 
plenty early. So he strolls eastward still, past the 
Custom House, and on till he comes out into the open, 
squarely in front of the Lion's Gate of Her Majesty's 
Tower. At this hour he should scarce gain admittance, 
and so proceeds to circumnavigate it almost, passing on 
up the incline of Great Tower Hill. 

If even in the broad light of day, the stranger finds 
the time-worn old fortress gloomy and stern, how might 
it now appear to the lone Lounger roaming about its 
long line of circumvallation, before the early dawn had 
imparted the first faint tinge of relieving glow ! The 
impression now was one wholly in keeping with its 
history, and from Great Tower Hill, where its bloody 
12 



r62 BEFORE DAWN IN OLD LONDON. 

scaffold stood, one could summon up some memories of 
iron hearts of the past, the noble or nobly born, who, — 
immured within its fearful prison, awaiting execution 
within its walls or the headsman's axe upon this hill, — 
saw life only as a fast fading vision, and death the great 
reality. 

Sir William Wallace, the young Princes, King Henry 
VI., Duke Clarence, Sir Thomas More, Sir Thomas 
Cromwell, Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Somerset, 
the Dudleys, Lady Jane Grey, Cranmer, Sir Thomas 
Wyatt, Southampton, Essex, Raleigh, Strafford, Sir 
William Russell; these are a few of the great names that 
serve in turn, to recall, not only their own tragic fate, 
but memorable epochs of that illustrious English History 
which is also ours by inheritance. 

But by what irony of fate came it that William Penn, 
that apostle of peace and exemplifier of the blessed rule 
of good-will, was born on this terrible eminence of 
Tower Hill ! Early his kind eyes looked down— as now 
the Lounger's in early morn — across moat, and over 
battlemented wall, and vast pile of wicked prison towers 
and inner fortifications,— with the White Tower, that 
massive Norman keep of William the Conqueror in the 
center; — and the lesson of all was that man should rule 
only by tyranny and oppression, through hate and through 
fear, with the aid of the prison and scaffold, by the might 
of the axe and the sword ! The world is learning a far 
different lesson, that Penn helped to teach, but still it is 
learning it painfully slow. 

Revolving such thoughts in his mind, and surveying 
the Tower from the different points of view, the Lounger 
passed around to the east into Little Tower Hill, and by 
the buildings of the Royal Mint, down past St. Katharine's. 



BEFORE DA \VN IN OLD LONDON. 163 

Docks, toward the Irongate and the Thames. A homeless 
vagrant lay stretched at full length on the stones of the 
walk, sleeping as soundly as might be. Policeman Z 
came along — or it might have been X or Y, they all 
looked so like twin brothers — and roused him up to 
"move on." Down near the Irongate, a waterman crept 
out of a hole in the wall where he had been reposing, 
and wanted to know if the Lounger would take a wherry. 
As he recognized the man at once for " Rogue Riderhood," 
he respectfully declined. 

The Lounger now concluded he had traversed far 
enough in this direction, and so retraced his steps 
westward. It was past five o'clock when he regained 
Billingsgate, and the historic market was now open. He 
saw some cargo of fish landed at its wharf, and heard 
some fish auctioned off inside, but the whole thing was 
as commonplace as may be ! The disappointment he 
experienced may be paralleled by the reader's sense of 
this feeblest of anti-climaxes, but he heard no wild, 
abusive language whatever, and in fact he saw no fish- 
women to speak of. In repayment for the loss of his 
morning nap, he had already secured some memorable 
impressions, but one more of the cherished illusions of 
youth had vanished, — fled, perhaps, to that fruitful 
limbo which preserves the apple of William Tell and the 
cherry-tree of George Washington. However, it may 
have been in the past, the fish-women of Billingsgate no 
longer ''talk Billingsgate" — and there are no fish-women 
there, any way. They "may gang their ain gate," but 
it is no longer Billingsgate. 



THE SALUTATION. 



Among ladies traveling abroad these days, there has 
developed a habit or fashion (one might call it a fad if 
indulged in by the sterner sex) of collecting a silver 
spoon from each town that they visit. Appreciating 
this fact, the leading manufacturing silver-smiths of the 
continent were not slow to go into the business of supply- 
ing the demand, by providing a representative spoon for 
every town in Europe of any pretension to tourist travel, 
each spoon duly stamped, it may be, with the name of 
its sponsor city. 

In due order of development, and following out the 
economic hint given by young Benjamin Franklin — who 
once irreverently advised his father to say grace over the 
whole barrel of pork when put down — the worldly-wise 
in their generation, who desire the biggest collection of 
town spoons at the least expenditure of time and money, 
would simply trace up this stream of silver to its source — 
the factories aforesaid — and there buy the whole outfit at 
wholesale figures. In this manner, the realistic bonanza- 
kings of silver are rapidly eliminating all the poetry and 
romance from life ! 

Now if the Lounger could have his way in making a 
souvenir-collection of European travel, he is not sure but 
he would prefer to bring home a choice selection of the 
inns he sojourned at when abroad. There would be two 
little difficulties in the way however. In the first place, 

\u 



THE SALUTATION. 165 

inns hardly come within the category of what Dickens' 
Wemmick was prone to hanker after — "portable prop- 
erty." And again, the Lounger fears that as, after all, 
one chief charm of those hostelries that struck his fancy, 
was their agreeable harmony with their own quaint 
surroundings, they would lose much by being detached 
therefrom, and might "suffer a sea-change," — into some- 
thing neither so "rich nor strange." 

Much the larger share of this fancied collection would 
be located on the soil of Old England. It would scarce 
include however, any of the larger or more modern 
caravanseries, though ever so complete or convenient 
and approximating the type of American hotels — such, 
for instance, as the Northwestern at Liverpool, St. 
Enoch's of Glasgow, — or, indeed, any of those moraines 
of railroad travel, the great Terminal Station hotels. 

He would especially delight, on the other hand, in 
those that serve as reminders of the English Inn of the 
olden time. Outside of the old Queen's Hotel of London, 
one of the first in the collection, as it was early in the 
order of his experience, might be "'The Salutation" at 
Ambleside. And yet possibly the Lounger is beguiled 
into this selection more from kindly memory of its good 
entertainment and some reflected glamour of its romantic 
surroundings, than from any other cause, for though two 
centuries old, the inn is beginning to take on extensions 
and modern airs, and to bid for tourist travel. 

On landing at the head of Lake Windermere from the 
little toy steamer that had brought us up from Bowness, 
we had found the busses in waiting from the inns at 
Ambleside. It scarce took us long to decide in favor of 
the ' ' Salutation. " The homely title had a flavor of hearty 
welcome and of good cheer. How could it fail in its 



1 66 THE SALUTATION. 

promise to the traveler, when its very name saluted him ! 

And the assurance was fairly kept. The "Salutation" 
was a good house, homely and homelike, centrally located 
in Ambleside, which is a beautiful rambling village in the 
very center of the Lake District, which, in turn, is 
renowned as one of the most agreeably diversified and 
beautiful of all England. As the old toper insisted that 
there was no such thing as poor whisky, yet admitted 
that there were differences in the flavors, — so the Lounger 
would remark that England, while universally interesting 
to him, is not so entirely uniform in its characteristics of 
scenery as many people imagine. This corner of West- 
moreland, looking over into Cumberland, is essentially 
Picturesque England. Beautiful lakes and waterfalls; 
green valleys and misty blue hills which at eventide draw 
near and project their wavy outlines against the sky, until 
you are almost ready to concede them the dignity, as 
they have all the poetry of mountains; — these are elements 
of charm that have drawn to them the feet of many who 
came with poetry in their hearts, and then felt constrained 
to abide here amid these scenes until that poetry found 
expression, which, in turn, has charmed the world. 
Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, Mrs. Hemans — as well 
as De Quincey, Kit North, Dr. Arnold and Harriet 
Martineau — these are noted names in English literature ! 

And this district has a nomenclature of its own for 
things picturesque such as are found within its borders. 
It provides its tourist seekers with "raises" in the way 
of regular ascents that can be overcome with roads, — with 
an abundance of "fells" and "scars" for rugged hills, — 
with "meres" and "waters" for peaceful lakes, and 
"tarns" for dark pools higher up among the hills, — with 
"ghylls" and "forces" for torrent and waterfall. 



THE SALUTATION. 167 

Quite in keeping with the local color of these names 
was the quaint appellation of the Salutation Hotel. We 
found our host quite genial and communicative for a 
native Englishman; one needs always to remember that 
qualification. He had been over to New York City, and 
had traveled on the Continent, so he was in a manner 
cosmopolitan. His rosy-cheeked daughter, who now 
kept the "books" inside the "bar," had received an 
-education adequate to entertaining the tourist travel with 
which this district is thronged in the late summer, by 
being taken over to Switzerland and placed in a French 
school at Geneva. 

Much entertaining gossip does he afford us concerning 
the district and its celebrities, — and then, following his 
direction, we are soon exploring some of the attractions 
of the locality for ourselves. A beautiful vale this about 
Ambleside, somewhat like the White Mountain Notch 
and the North Conway meadows combined in one 
picture ! Over a stile, along a foot-path by the banks 
of the "beck," and then across the little river Rothay to 
the road beyond that circles past Fox-Howe, the old 
home of Dr. Arnold, still inhabited by his daughter, the 
sister of Matthew; and then skirting the foot of Lough- 
ridge Fell, the winding road brings us back at length 
into the village at its upper end, and past the entrance of 
Harriet Martineau's cottage, just off the highway and 
embowered in shrubbery — lilacs, laurels and pink rhodo- 
dendrons now in all their blossoming glory of color. 
The two-story cottage is of the native dark stone, but 
covered to the top with ivy and sweet honey-suckle. We 
penetrate the flowery precincts of the enclosure, on 
assurance already given by mine host of the Salutation 
that it will be all right for Americans — and we are, in 



1 68 THE SALUTATION. 

fact, most cordially received by Mr. Hills, who owns the 
cottage, and kindly shown all traces and memorials of 
herself left behind by Miss Martineau, in this secluded 
retreat, where, amid the beauty and bloom of nature, the 
woman of great intellect patiently awaited the end of so 
many years of suffering. In the library was still the 
little bust of Clytie over the center of the mahogany 
shelves that had held her books, and the rug on the floor 
given by Jacob Bright, while outside, below the circling 
terrace, where the slope fell away toward the '-beck," 
stood her sun-dial with its pathetic inscription, "Light! 
Come visit me ! " 

And when after another stroll, up the hills to Stock- 
Ghyll Force, we return rather wearied, the good hostess 
of the Salutation meets us in the doorway, with her own 
kindly salutation, and — What would we be pleased to 
have for supper? In the absence of any expressed 
preference, she herself finally suggests — would we like a 
nice char? Now this was another new word in the 
Westmoreland vocabulary, concealing we knew not what 
in the gastronomic repertory— but the Lounger fell into 
hearty acquiescence: — Yes, that would be the very thing ! 
For aught he knew, it might belong to either roast or 
boiled, — in the category of patties or of puddings. A 
dark suspicion even crossed his mind that it might prove 
one of the protean names or forms of hotel hash ! But 
we were in for it, all the same, and with a tranquil mind 
awaited developments. 

The sequence was a happy one. The char was not 
charred, but done to a turn, and proved to be a serving 
of the most delicious and delicate a broil of fish that 
ever tired travelers did justice to at close of day. Justice, 
say we? Yea, for more than justice, for the bones were 
picked clean ! 



THE SALUTATION. 



169 



To the Lounger's inquiry if these were not trout indeed, 
the landlady insisted to the contrary. It was "Char" — 
a fish caught here in Lake Windermere, on this last May- 
day of the season. "A month hence and a guinea a 
piece would not secure one," she averred; as also that 
trout could not live in the same stream with char. She 
was not so far wrong, for if the "proper authorities" are 
to be relied on, whilst char are of the trout family, they 
belong not at all to the true genus "trout" — any more 
than do our American brook trout which are actually a 
species of "char." 

However, instead of raising any of these nice questions 
in Natural History at the time, we preferred to petition 
the hostess to raise us some more char for the morrow's 
breakfast; — and again we feasted royally upon them for 
first course, perhaps "not wisely but too well," indeed, 
for when the waiter followed after with an ample supply 
of lamb chops, tender and succulent, we fairly confessed 
our inability to do that subject justice. The mildly 
reproachful look of that waiter — somewhat tempered, 
perhaps, with pity and contempt for our incapacity — 
lingers yet upon the Lounger's memory after lo, these 
many years ! 

And we left at length and most regretfully the Saluta- 
tion and the shores of beautiful Lake Windermere. We 
chose not the route by Kirkstone Pass, which leads by 
what is sometimes pronounced the 'Tghest hin-'abited 
'ouse hin hall Hingland,' — but the road across "Dunnail 
Raise" and on to Keswick. A delightful ride this, which 
led us first between the hills, and past Rydal Mere (a 
mere pond no larger than a mill-dam) on the one side, 
and Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's old place, opposite; 
then by Grassmere Lake and Grassmere Village, stopping 



170 



THE SALUTATION. 



awhile at its little church-yard to note the graves of the 
Poet and of his daughter Dora; thence on again, up the 
long ascent of the " Raise," and skirting the western 
flanks of the "Mighty Helvellyn;" then for a few miles 
by narrow Thirlmere, whose pure waters have been 
bought up, to be conducted for a hundred miles across 
the country to thirsty Manchester. Then coursing along 
valleys between the ranges, we finally came to where 
Saddleback and Skiddaw rose up in front, and from the 
summit of a slope could look right down upon Derwent- 
water with other beautiful lakes shining among the hills; 
the pleasant little town of Keswick, where Southey used 
to dwell, nestling in its nook, with picturesque, misty 
mountains standing around to "sentinel enchanted 
ground." And there, on the shores of blue Derwent- 
water, near the Falls of Lodore, where the waters "come 
down" with, all their many particles and participles 
(ending in ing) — when there are any waters to descend — 
we find another inn, picturesquely situated, indeed, but 
by no means sufficient in charm to displace or dispel the 
memory of Ambleside and of The Salutation. 



MORE OLD INNS. 



Before resuming in good earnest the cataloguing of his 
souvenir collection of English Inns, the Lounger has a 
mind to advert for a moment to some specimens of a 
different type. For these, it is true, he owns not the 
same measure of affection — indeed he doubts whether he 
loves them at all — but they, too, are historic in their way, 
and interesting in their survivals. These British hostelries 
of a generation or two agone mark the transition period 
between the old English stage-coach inn of the past, and 
the commercial-traveler and tourist emporium of to-day. 
While the first, in its day, was prone to heartiness and 
jollity, and the last gravitates inevitably toward the noisy 
bustle and activity of the American caravansery, the 
intervening type was sedate and eminently respectable 
always, and sometimes almost preternaturally solemn. 

Of this character, the Regent's Hotel at Leamington 
was a conspicuous example. How intensely dignified 
and how ineffably dreary it was — and how fearfully 
ponderous and respectably stupid were its chuffy waiters, 
in their swallow-tailed coats and high cravats. The one 
redeeming feature of the hotel was its exemplary dining- 
room, with its side-board so massive, yet fairly groaning 
under the weight of those noble joints borne in by the 
fat, short-legged waiters, bending under the burden of 
their immense platters as did Atlas with the World upon 
his shoulders. 

171 



172 MORE OLD INNS. 

Then too, for another specimen, — the County Hotel 
at Carlisle, just outside the old walls and across from the 
station! This is a fair example of that high-toned insti- 
tution as depicted in the modern English novel, — the 
place where the advocates assemble during the Sessions, 
and where the gay young belles of the gentry sometimes 
pass the remaining hours of the night, after their attendance 
at the annual County Ball. Its rooms are hung with 
old-fashioned engravings, and its corridors with oil- 
portraits, in massive gilt frames, of exalted personages of 
the Royal Family for many generations. Most excellent — 
and stupid — is the County Hotel of Carlisle ! 

But when we want a genuine old country inn of the 
primitive type, commend us to "the Lowdoim, " at 
Mauchline, in Scotland. Than this little village probably 
no better representative of the Lowland Scotch country 
town could be found anywhere, and its sole inn is in 
thorough keeping with it. We had stopped off here to 
see the village that Robert Burns had frequented, the 
one whose scenes and personages he had commemorated, 
and from which, on the publication of his first volume of 
poems, he suddenly burst forth upon Scotland and the 
world as the meteor genius of his time. 

Apart however from its association with Burns, we 
were glad that we had visited Mauchline, feeling that we 
had caught a little glimpse of the old-time rural life of 
Scotland, almost fossilized in this little out-of-the-way 
village. Especially characteristic of those times was 
this rambling old inn, with its thatch roof mossy with 
age, and delightfully picturesque in the afternoon sunlight. 
Its interior too, might afford fine scope for the painter. 
We penetrated the old kitchen, with its stone floor and 
generous fire-place, and found its utensils and the furniture 



MORE OLD INNS. 173 

generally characteristically antique. In the tap-room, 
which we traverse on our way to the lunch-room, a pair 
of rustics are discussing a tankard of home-brewed, in 
regular "genre" fashion. Here, after visiting the old 
Burns' farm of Mossgiel, we did full justice to the homely 
lunch, including cuts from a noble round of cold roast 
beef, pickles, oaten cakes as thin as wafers, cheese and 
rhubarb tart. And then we go on our way rejoicingly to 
"Auld Ayr," Kirk Alloway and Bonnie Doon. 

Once, — in the good old days "when George the Third 
was king" — a highly fashionable watering-place, and still, 
though deserted by the throng that crowds to newer 
resorts, a haunt of British dowagers of the most eminent 
respectability, Leamington Spa aforementioned boasts a 
location wholly unsurpassed for elements of pastoral 
beauty, for it is in the center of "Warwickshire, the 
geographic center of the country, and the very heart of 
"Merrie England." 

And yet, lying thus in the midst of the loveliest and 
most cultivated country in the world, affluent with glade 
and stream and bosky dell,— where the foliage is of the 
densest, and the verdure of the brightest emerald; sur- 
rounded by parks and aristocratic country-seats, with 
attractive towns and villages on every hand, — Leamington 
is scarce sought by the American traveler but for its 
railroad station and its convenient access to its more 
famous neighbors, romantic Kenilworth, historic Warwick 
and word-renowned Stratford-upon-Avon. 

As the Lounger is not here a chronicler of the glories 
of the eventful past, he will scarce indulge in a retrospect 
of his visit to these memorable scenes — and after the 
grand round past the historic castles, will pause but for a 



174 



MORE OLD INNS. 



moment at the pastry-cook's shop in the stony High 
Street of Warwick village, and then travel on by green 
lanes and hawthorn hedges of blossoming white and rarer 
pink, to the Red Horse Inn at Stratford. 

The halt at the pasry-cook's was, of course, to bait 
ourselves with a glass of milk and a bun. While indulging 
in this refreshment, our driver came rushing in, breathless 
with the excitement of momentous news: "His Ludship, 
the Hearl of Warrick is comin' down the street ! " Willing 
to sample the quality of that "divinity which doth hedge 
in" a live Earl upon his native heath, we moved to the 
open doorway — and there, came ambling down the 
sidewalk with tottering, teetering steps, a feeble, super- 
annuated old London beau ! We say to ourselves, " Oh ! 
how unlike the historic Kingmaker of the olden-time 
whose title you inherit. Though the descendant "of a 
hundred earls" (which is more than doubtful) and with 
all the treasures of yonder stately pile, at your back — 
"You are not one to be desired!" 

After Shakespeare and Washington Irving, it were 
surely idle for the Lounger to attempt to paint the lily of 
the Avon meadows, or to gild the refined gold-leaf of 
the old sign of the Red Horse Inn. It may suffice to 
say of the latter, that the charm of quaintness which 
Irving found therein is still measurably preserved in the 
irregular, rambling old tavern, together with the memory 
of Irving himself, whose literary commendation has been 
an interest-bearing capital ever since to the Inn. They 
do well, therefore, to call the little seven-by-nine room 
on the ground-floor, just off "the bar," the "Irving 
Parlor;" with his arm-chair and a few other relics of the 
author's stay faithfully preserved; and to seat the Lounger 
therein for supper, after he had visited the old house in 



MORE OLD INNS. 175 

Henley Street, where Shakespeare was born, the old 
Guildhall Grammar School, the site of New Place--and 
had strolled, over stile and by foot-path, across the little 
fields to Anne Hathaway's cottage at Shottery. Shakes- 
peare went for Anne across lots you remember. 

Yes, we had done all this in the late hours of one 
September afternoon; beside visiting the Old Church 
where he lies buried under that slab whose doggerel 
inscription is certainly a grammatic oddity — whether 
crypt-o-grammatic or no. 

And the next day, which was Sunday, we spent as a 
day of rest at Stratford. When the church bells were 
ringing for service in that same old church, the Lounger 
fears that, true to his name, he was rambling adown the 
meadows, past the old mill and along the banks of the 
peaceful Avon, which for all the world, so far as natural 
characteristics go, might have been the beautiful Brandy- 
wine instead. And the Lounger wandered and pondered — 
11 loafed and invited his soul" — and then came back and 
had a homely dinner at the Red Horse Inn. Did he 
muse much upon Shakespeare, and gain any new light 
upon the enigma of his being and doing, here amid his 
early and later haunts — where the rude cottage of his 
birth-place still survives, whilst the fine house which he 
built on the best corner-lot in town has long since 
vanished? Well, the Lounger fears that all the light he 
gained here was but darkness — made visible ! 

And lo! as the Lounger mused thus at eventide, on the 
High Street of old Stratford Village, in front of its old 
Grammar School, where Shakespeare learned a great 
deal of Latin — or learned none whatever, (the world is 
not quite sure which) — a modern Minstrel of Song came 
along, with his wife and children three — minor minstrels; 



2j6 MORE OLD INBS. 

all leading each other by the hand, strung across the 
street as they passed by. And they lifted up their voices 
and sang. It was none of the melodious sonnets of 
Shakespeare; no catch from madrigal or roundelay of 
the Bard of Avon — but the first line thereof had a familiar 
sound notwithstanding: "There's a land that is fairer than 
day ! " And the Lounger, who had then been many 
long months away from home, said to himself: "Yes, I 
know that land right well — it's America" — and went and 
dropped a nickel (or was it four-pence) in the hat. 

Only one more old English inn, and then the reader 
shall have his "innings," for a spell! 'lis the Peacock 
Inn at Rowsley. We are in Derbyshire now, but Merrie 
England stretches over this way and includes this region, 
beyond question. From Rowsley you can have your 
choice between the choicest of the Old and the New of 
England. If you are of the mind of the Lounger you 
will scarce fail to choose both. Two miles up the Wye, 
and you are at Haddon Hall, — perhaps the best type, 
and at least the best preserved, of the Old Baronial Hall 
of England. It has not been inhabited for 150 years, 
but here it is, all in apple-pie order, kept thus for you and 
me as an object-lesson happily illustrating Old English 
life. Here is the old kitchen, with the slaughter-room 
attached. There they killed the ox, and in the adjoining 
kitchen, on the spits before the immense fire-place, they 
roasted him whole, when "the Baron and all his retainers 
gay were holding a Christmas holiday." 

And next is the old Banquetting Hall (of the thirteenth- 
century) with its stone floor, its massive slab table, worn 
and time-eaten, with its rude benches of slabs for seats; 
and, though the hall is low-storied, yet, stretched across 



MORE OLD INNS. 1 77 

above, is the gallery for the minstrels. The ox (almost 
as large as an elephant) "now goes round — the band 
begins to play." Farther along is the dining-hall of later 
date — fifteenth century now — with its cross-beam ceiling, 
hacked in after time by Cromwell's soldiers. And many 
other rooms there are that belonged to the two differing 
eras of its building. It is all wonderfully interesting 
"from turret to foundation stone," even to the postern- 
door, leading out on the terrace, through which Dorothy 
Vernon eloped, and carried the estate into the family of 
the Duke of Rutland, which holds it to this day. These, 
and a hundred other things, they show and tell you — all 
wonderfully cheap for your shilling to the house-keeper's 
fair daughter. 

But on the other hand, only four miles from Rowsley, 
along the Derwent, is Chatsworth, the great seat of the 
Duke of Devonshire, and one of the finest show places in 
England — or the world, for that matter. If Haddon 
Hall possesses all the interest of antiquity, Chatsworth 
boasts the glories of modern days. It is full of magnifi- 
cence — frescoes, carvings, royal furniture and bric-a-brac, 
paintings and statuary; — and all by world-renowned 
masters in each department of art. Then, too, the finest 
conservatories, gardens and park, everything on a grand 
scale. They show you an India-rubber tree, which 
discharges a shower of water when they get you planted 
— under it. A veritable hoax, you see ! They point out 
also oak trees, said to have been planted by the Queen, 
and the Czar of Russia. These, may be "Royal H-oaks " 
also, for aught the Lounger knows. 

But after all is said and "done," you will enjoy your 
night's rest succeeding, at the old Peacock Inn. A most 
picturesque old inn, indeed, with its gables, its latticed 

13 



i7» 



MORE OLD INN iS. 



windows with diamond panes, its clinging ivy outside, 
and its cheering fire-place indoors. All these things are 
built to order now-a-days: but this is the genuine old-time 
thing. And then its pleasant little chamber overhead, 
where they put you to rest amid such abundance of clean 
and fragrant linen. It really seemed that no inn in 
Britain was too small to own a profuse supply of fresh, 
wholesome linen ! You have read Leigh Hunt's essay 
on ''Bed?". Well, it has always seemed to the Lounger 
that Hunt's essay could scarce have been written in any 
country in Europe save England. 

And over the door of the old Peacock Inn was a 
venerable inscription. The Lounger took it at first for 
some cryptogrammic Old English of Robin Hood and 
Friar Tuck significance, that might somehow mean 
•'Honest Venison." But he will just leave it to the 
reader to decipher. Here it is: 




IOHNSTE 

16 53 

VENSON 



FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. 



The Lounger had just returned to Paris from the 
Rhine country and, strolling along the Boulevards des 
Italiens, the next morning, had stopped for a moment at 
the end of one of those Passages that lead into that 
thoroughfare, partly to take shelter from a passing shower, 
but more to use that pretext in order to observe interestedly 
the flow of the life-tide along the avenue, — not swift and 
tumultuous as in Cheapside or the Strand of London, — 
but rolling with the gentle swell of summer seas. Your 
genuine strolling Parisian takes life as if it was all before 
him, one long holiday — except indeed, when perforce 
darting swiftly for a moment, to make the dangerous 
transit of the crossings and escape the present peril of 
the reckless fiacre driver. 

Among the approaching throng, however, the Lounger's 
eye was attracted by a conspicuous exception to the 
general rule of the current, — a green bough of driftwood 
amid the eddying stream. Not only in the elbowing, 
nervous action and swinging stride, hurrying to get there — 
not alone in the restless, roving eye and the sharpened 
physiognomy — but in a dozen other ways, indefinable 
but patent to the senses, the Lounger recognized at once 
a familiar type, and mentally ejaculated; "My Country, 
'tis of thee ! " 

This recognition needed not to be supplemented by the 
customary chronic-catarrhal tone of voice, but this was 

179 



T 8o FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. 

supplied, for the stranger, seeing the Lounger at ease, 
deemed him just the person nearest at hand to ply with 
the question nearest to mind — so promptly brought up 
before him with: " Mossoo, vooly voo, me deary -jay aJi 
Drexels, sivoo play /" The Lounger determined not to 
t pi a y ' — at talking French — so replied with his usual form- 
ula: ll Je ne parle pas le Franc ais." 

Something in the Lounger's accents, in spite of their 
refined tone, seemed to betray a kindred nationality to 
the stranger, who, scanning his face sharply, quickly 
responded: "Well, you talk American, dont you?" 

"Like a native," replied the Lounger. 

"Well — I'm mighty glad of it — where's Drexel's? 
But never mind — that can wait. What State are you 
from? How long have you been over? What boat did 
you come on ? Kansas ! W 7 hy, you dont say ! How 
lucky I spoke to you ! Why, I 'm a Sunflower myself — 
you bet I am. Brattle's my name — of Ingleson. What's 
your town ? Lawrence ! You dont say ! Why, I know 
the 'Old Historic' like a book, — especially some of the 
University folks. I 'm a teacher myself — educated at 
Ballburn College — and I 've been runnin' the Fourth 
Ward School at Ingleson. Came out on the Anchor Line 
to Glasgow. Been over six weeks already. Our folks 
at Ingleson are goin' to give me First Assistant in the 
High-School this fall. Just come over to rub up my 
talkin' French a little, first — I'm to teach it, you know. 
Had a thorough course in it at Ballburn and read it, like 
a book — Telemack and all the rest — and now I 've got 
on to the pronunciation first-rate. I can parley-voo 
with any of 'em. Of course the genders bother me some, 
there's so many things engendered here in France, But 
what did you say your name was? Lounger! Well, — 



FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. jgi 

there's a large family of you in Lawrence, isn't there ! 
Ingleson's the town, though; — pretty much all the noted 
men of the state come from Ingleson." 

And so he ran on, apparently delighted. "But say, 
let's go somewhere where we can talk. In one of the 
Caffys, say ? Why I hadn't seen the first blessed Jayhawk 
since I left home. Come, let's have somethin' together, 
right away." 

"Much obliged to you, Mr. Brattle — I'm glad to meet 
you and will go with you gladly — but bear in mind, that 
collectively you and I represent a prohibition State, and 
as personally you are a teacher, it would scarce be proper 
for us to be seen drinking in cafes." 

"Oh bother that," exclaimed Mr. Brattle with some 
freedom; "we're a long ways from home — and you know 
what the apostle enjoined — 'when you are in Rome do 
as the Romans, and be all things to all men.' Well I'm 
a roamin' now — and a little good wine won't hurt us." 

"That may all be, Mr. Brattle, but I never drink in 
cafes. One is compelled to draw the line somewhere — 
and I draw it around the dinner-table exclusively. In 
the absence of a certified analysis from the chemists of 
the State University as to the total freedom from microbes 
of the Seine water, I do feel compelled occasionally to 
take, at dinner, one small" — 

— " Wee, wee" broke in Mr. Brattle ii Jer eumprenny — 
oon de?nmy boot ell de va?ig ordenare.' 1 '' 

"By no means, Mr. Brattle," quoth the Lounger with 
some dignity; "always 'the Chambertin with yellow 
seal,' as Thackeray says." 

"Well — come along anyway. There's plenty of Caffys 
around here — I know 'em pretty well. There's one 
thing that isn't disappointin' about Parree, and that's the 



182 FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. 

Caffys. I've got the ong-tray of them all, and I find 
'em trays interessong, especially those in the Shams-e- 
lizzy. Which will you have now — Caffy Reesb, Tortony's 
or the May-Song Dory? Well, let's try Tortony's, then; 
it's near bv and first-class." 

"Here we are" — he ran on as we moved on — "let's 
go inside; no sittin' out on the sidewalk for me. It looks 
too public and second-classy for an American. Besides, 
it's too near the curb and those things. They may be all 
right in one sense, but they're all wrong in other scents. 
Queer people these French, dont you think? Just look 
at 'em drinking their green absynth ! Wormwood and 
gall, — I've tried it and I know. It'll kill 'em off, sure. 
Here we are inside and here's a table ! Hope you did'nt 
forget to bow to the dam de comptwor there at her desk ! 
Sounds like a title of nobility dont it? What, positively 
no vang ! — then what'll you have — here's the maynoo." 

The Lounger referred it back to himself. — "Well, 
here's 'Fromazh glassy? fromazh means cheese, Lounger. 
Sorry you dont talk French, its easy enough. Dont see 
how you possibly get along without. Do you like cheese ? 
I'm mighty fond of it, myself. Well, let's have some 
of this, and a roll to go with it. ' Garsong!' — 'garsong' 
means 'boy,' but you always call the waiter 'garsong' 
even if he is baldheaded — ' garsong, apportong noo du 
fromazh glassy, ay du pang, poor doo I eh beang ! — 
attonday, garsong / ' ' Sorebay de crame ah lah Vaneel ' — 
that must be somethin' nice for dessert. Sorebay poor 
doo, garsong— partong I allong /" 

The Lounger now thought it his turn: "Where are you 
stopping, Mr. Brattle?" 

"Well, I did try the 'Hotel Days Aytah Unee' in the 
Roo Show-Say Darntarng; the home name took me in, 



FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. 183 

you see. But I've changed now to the 'Trwaaw Prangse ' 
in the 'Petty Shams.' It's a good house, and though 
the name's aristocratic (it means 'Three Princes,' you 
know) the prices aint. You should have seen me put 
my foot down on the port-yay and the sairvongs, the 
whole kit and bilen' of 'em, when I came away from that 
first hotel ! They got no fee — no poor-bwor from me — 
on principle! I just said to the port-yays 'you drop 
that valise, I'm attendin' to that myself,' — said it in good 
American— and they let me alone. But most always I 
get my dinners out, at the t Ay table eshmong Bullion* in 
Roo Cat-Set- Tom. Dee nay ah pre- fix you know." 

"But inasmuch as you are so fond of Caffy, I rather 
wonder you do not patronize the ' Hotel de Veal,'' 1 '' quoth 
the Lounger. 

"There it is now, Lounger; that mistake of yours just 
comes from your not knowin' French. That name simply 
means the same as ' City Hotel ' in our country. Then 
there's the 'hotel days Arnvaleed' — 'Invalids,' we would 
call it; just a kind of family hotel, you know, for those 
who want to rest up and recuperate their health." 

"Of course you've seen many of the sights of Paris 
already, Mr. Brattle?" 

"Seen the most of 'em, I guess, Mr. Lounger. Didn't 
come here to let the grass grow under my feet." 

"Then you have 'done' the picture galleries and seen 
the famous pictures and statues?" 

"Statues by the ton and pictures by the mile — in the 
Loover. Saw that, one of the first things. I was rather 
'fresh,' then, and hadn't got the lingo down just so fine 
as I have now. I had quite a hard time, indeed, gettin' 
into the Loover. As I was directed, I started from the 
Bullyvars here, down St. Lewee le Grong, across Roo 



184 FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. 

Cat-Set-Tom, into Avenoo Lopera. That took me down, 
you see, into Plass Tayater Frongsay. There I stuck; 
so, I spoke to a boy — one of the Parree 'game-uns, ' he 
was- -and tried to get him for a guide. I said: ' Garsong, 
mong bong ong/ong, mongtray mwaw le Loover, sivoo 
play!'' But he only shook his head and held out his 
hand, till I put a frank in it, and then he ran away. 
Then I asked a John Darin, and he took me, for 'twas 
only a step, into the Roo de Rivoly, and showed me the 
doorway. Well, when I entered the old palace I found 
I was in the wrong box somehow. There was a big lot 
of clerks and desks, but not a single picture nor statue. 
If you'll believe me, Lounger, 'twas the Departmong of 
Feenongse of France ! I stepped up to a head-man 
there — he may have been the Minister himself — and I 
said: ' Mossoo, csker say le Loover easy, sivoo play ? ' and 
he said 'wee.' Then I said l May — 00 ay lay paint-your 
ay lay stat-your, ' for I had forgotten the right French for 
statues. Then he smiled, and talked a blue streak for a 
minute, without any punctuation-marks between the 
words or sentences; and he made me tired, for I couldn't 
get the hang of what he was sayin' worth a cent, only he 
kept repeatin' somethin' about 'Mu-say. ' When he 
stopped at last, I said 'Jemiy come prong pa: — Jer swee 
Americaiii. Jay oon grojig day-seer de vwor lay Loover — 
lay paint-your ay lay stat-your' 1 — and as he smiled so 
pleasantly, I thought I would give him some ' taffy ' in 
my best French — so, I added, ' Mossoo, jer swee sharmay 
de voo vivor /' Then he bowed and smiled again, took 
me by the arm, led me to the opposite door, opening on 
an inner court, and pointed across, to the entrance of the 
Musay. Oh, but he was a polite man for a Minister of 
Finances- -if he was the minister." 



FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. 



185 



Just then the waiter brought in the order — the ' fromazh' 
and the 'sorebays' — and, to the astonishment of Mr. 
Brattle, his loved cheese was absent, while outside of the 
pang, the dishes seemed to be almost a duplication, and 
of some half-frozen substance very much resembling the 
ice-cream of our own confectioners. Solacing ourselves, 
however, for our disappointment, by the reflection that 
we had, at all events, secured our national luxury, we 
proceeded to enjoy the refreshment — and, Brattle, with 
his reminiscence. "Well, I saw the statuary in the 
basement, the Venus de Meelo and all the rest, most of 
'em badly mutilated and demoralized, and the thousands 
of pictures above, especially the renowned ones in the 
Saloon Carry. But I didn't think much of the buildin' 
itself, Lounger; it's a dingy old thing, with a mansard 
roof, such as we tried in our country years ago and 
discarded." 

"I'm sorry you didn't like the architecture," quoth the 
Lounger, "though it is of rather a gloomy character. 
But have you yet seen the Madeleine — the beautiful 
Madeleine?" 

"Well, I hardly know, Lounger, but I guess I have. 
I went to the Caffy Shon-tongs and the Caffy Dong-songs, 
in the Shams-e-lizzy, the night of my arrival — and I think 
that was the name of one of them. I tell you 'twas 
high-jinks there Lounger;" and he winked audibly. 

"Oh Brattle," exclaimed the Lounger, ''you have seen 
far too much already in this wicked city of Paris, but the 
Madeleine is not its Mabille, but one of its sacred things 
instead ! It is a cathedral, one of the most beautiful of 
churches." 

"Well, then, I hav'nt seen it, and I do recollect now 
it was Mabel the other affair was called, the Schardang 



jS6 FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. 

Mabel; but speakin' of churches, I tell you, Lounger, I 
have seen Not-er Dam Cathedral, in the city." 

"Brattle," quoth the Lounger severely, "I fear that 
evil communication has got in its fell work already; but 
no profanity, please ! Remember that at home you are 
an instructor of youth, both on week-days and on Sunday, 
and there should be a limit of latitude, when abroad, 
even for church members. They shouldn't travel too 
fast nor too far ! " 

"Why, Lounger, I wasn't swearin' by no means, and 
if I was off about the Madeleine, you are now about 
Not-er Dam. Why that's a sure-enough church too, and 
they told me it was 'dong la City,' though nobody ever 
supposed it was a meetin'-house out in the country, I 
reckon." 

"Oh, they meant it was in the Old City of Paris, Mr. 
Brattle, — across the Seine — He de la Cite." 

"But, Lounger, I want to know how you caught on so 
quick to my bein' a Sabbath-School teacher back at 
home in Ingleson?" 

"Why you gave yourself away, Mr. Brattle, when you 
acknowledged that you went to the Mabille the very night 
of your arrival. You extra good people are so anxious 
to see how wicked a city is Paris, that, as you say, you 
let no grass grow under your feet. The rest of us can 
afford to wait awhile, and then, perhaps, forget it 
entirely." 

"Well, that's all right, but you've got to see for 
yourself; and, one thing I can tell you, that a good deal 
of that High Art in the Loover — 'high old art,' I call 
it — such as those pictures of Ruben's in the long gallery 
discounts the Mabel people badly, while the Shon-tongs 
folks are modest in comparison." 



FRENCH AS SHE IS SPOKE. i8*j 

"Your criticism is just, Mr. Brattle, and modern 
French art is no improvement. Possibly you are not so 
well versed in that as you are in the language ! It must 
be a great satisfaction to speak that so fluently." 

"You're just right there, Lounger. It's a great advan- 
tage, especially in the shops. They just let me have 
things away down. The shop-girls say my accent is 
'par/ate, o mar-vale. % I see 'em smilin' at each other 
sometimes, it pleases 'em so to hear their tongue spoken 
so well bv a foreigner. Some of 'em take me for a 
Parisian born. Oh, they're just as bright as Americans ! 
I came across a stupid one the other day, though, in 
a shop in the Roo de lah Pay, where I'd gone to buy a 
fan for my feearn-say, back in Ingleson. The girl 
couldn't understand me, any more'n I could get on to 
her French. After jabberin' at each other for awhile, 
she suddenly broke out in good English, and then it- 
came out that she was an English-woman, from London. 
Hadn't been over more'n six months. But, I tell you. 
Lounger, you just want me to help you buy things here. 
I'll do it." 

By this time our refreshments were exhausted, and. 
giving Mr. Brattle my hotel address — and the direction 
to Drexel's — we reluctantly took leave of each other for 
the time being. " Wee, wee, I'll look you up toot-sweet 
at the St. James," said Mr. Brattle, "and we'll have 
some good times together. I'll show you around; but 
it's rather a pity you dont know French, Lounger. O 
rayvwor, ardeoo ah pray-song /■" 



CONTINENTAL HOTELS. 



Long years ago the Lounger made and heralded the 
notable discovery that the inns were just one-half "the 
ins and outs" of travel. Did this even apply solely to 
the "money out" it were an announcement worthy, 
perhaps, to go down to remote posterity parallel with that 
other discovery, of a great economic genius, that "the 
butter of a family costs more than its bread." 

The reader will, perhaps, suspect that the Lounger is 
inclined to emphasize the importance of this subject of 
inns, as some manner of apology for devoting so much 
attention to those of the Old World, in particular. This 
paper will be devoted to inns in general — or rather to 
some general characteristics of the Continental Hotel. 

As his omnibus or carriage from the railway-station 
rolls into the hotel court-yard, or sweeps up, with a 
cracking of whips and a final flourish, before the hotel 
entrance, the neophyte in European travel is apt to be a 
little oppressed as well as impressed by the grand style of 
his advent. This in spite of the fact that Matthew 
Arnold always advised his readers — and writers — to 
cultivate "the grand style." Oppressed, indeed, in this 
instance, not only on account of intrinsic modesty, but 
with a vague suspicion that some of the grandeur and 
warmth of this reception may come to figure in the bill. 
He has heard, mayhap, that honors are not so easy in 
Europe, and that everything has to be paid for, sooner 

188 



CONTINENTAL HOTELS. 



189 



or later. Here are assembled apparently a majority of 
all the attaches of the establishment, vying with one 
another in their eager attentions to the traveler, and 
seeming to say to him, as in the mute but expressive 
language of the wagging tails of the house-dogs at the 
parsonage of Praed's Vicar — "Our master knows you — 
you're expected." Smart, discerning people, these Con- 
tinental landlords — but how is it possible that they got 
hold of the fact that a member of the Town Council of 
Smithville was coming on this train, when you hadn't 
even telegraphed ahead for rooms? 

On entering the doorway, here is the greeting landlord 
himself, with the rest of his subordinates — if, indeed, it 
has not chanced to be your fortune, as sometimes that of 
the Lounger, to find them drawn up in parallel lines on 
either hand outside. Conspicuous amid the throng is 
that intelligent and distinguished looking gentleman with 
a gilt band on his cap, whom you soon come to recognize 
as the factotum of the establishment, worth all the rest 
put together, and ready to be ranked your "guide, 
philosopher and friend," the portier. 

Do not get excited at all this honorary array, however; 
it is not peculiar to yourself alone, and for yourself, it 
will never greet you in such force again but once — when 
you come to leave ! It is simply a hotel contrivance to 
"welcome the coming, speed the parting guest." 

Thank fortune, however, there is one individual (the 
Lounger might more haply term him 'institution') that is 
lacking, — that haughty and much-be-diamonded-in-shirt- 
studs tyrant, the traveler's born lord and master, the 
American hotel clerk. He, who, like the Speaker of the 
House of Representatives at Washington, recognizes 
solely whom he pleases; and again like said Speaker, 



9° 



CONTINENTAL HOTELS. 



cares to count you in only when he wants to make a 
quorum; — he whom you vainly implore, for a quarter of 
an hour, to recognize you, on the floor before him, while 
your poor, tired, head-achy wife sits forlorn in her 
weariness and traveling-duster, up in the reception-room; 
• — he, who, when at last vouchsafing to behold you, 
studies his key-board for ten mortal minutes longer, in 
order to pick out and assign you the worst room in the 
building, away up under the eaves, while he retains the 
best in the house for some commercial-traveler crony of 
his own, who is coming along by and by. 

Instead of this, up steps, the moment you enter, a 
major-domo, with his list of vacant rooms in his hands, 
at his finger-ends, — and in two minutes your rooms are 
assigned you, and within three more, you are installed 
therein. Then, the waiter takes down your name and 
number, which are entered on the portier's book in the 
hall. They rather like to have your name, as it is 
convenient in case of letters coming, or acquaintances 
calling for you; but it is not indispensible otherwise, and 
you may, if you choose, be known only as "37," or 
"the lady and gentleman in 68. " You discover, after a 
while, that they really know — or care — nothing about 
that Smithville Alderman business after all. It will scarce 
be worth while to impart to them that you expect, indeed, 
to be chosen Mayor next year. A mark or a franc 
piece will go further with any waiter in Europe than any 
such piece of frankness or mark of confidence on your 
part. You need not assume any factitious dignity, 
however. Keep your reserves for the landlord — but 
treat the waiter franklv ! 

Once at Cologne, the Lounger was quartered in a room 
adjoining that occupied by one of our leading Democratic 



CONTINENTAL HOTELS. jgj 

candidates for the presidency, who received no more 
honors or attentions there than did the Lounger himself. 
In fact, none of the hotel-folk had ever heard of him 
before, — not even the "portier. " 

Well, you get your room, and soon you ring the bell. 
If you do that the first thing on your arrival in an 
American hotel, the evening of a hot day, unmindful of 
the bell-code and the servant's convenience— the waiter 
who toils up those weary nights of stairs, takes chances 
on knowing what you want by intuition — and brings a 
pitcher of ice-water for drinking. Your English waiter 
thinks he knows what an English guest would wish under 
such circumstances and fetches you a jug of hot water 
for bathing. "Such is the custom of Branksome Hall ! " 
Your Continental waiter comes bearing a fresh pair of 
candles, and lights them — which will lighten your purse 
to the extent of two-francs for every evening. The 
landlord has no notion of allowing you to follow in the 
footsteps of the sire of "Proud Miss MacBride," who — 
" Little by little grew to be rich, 
By saving of candle ends, and sich.' 1 

Taking it all in all, the European hostelry compares 
not unfavorably with our own. The larger and newer 
are usually supplied with all modern conveniences, except 
toilet-soap, and this, like the candles, you can have for 'a 
consideration.' As a rule, their hotels are not nearly so 
spacious as our largest caravanseries, and less profuse in 
extravagant decoration. In large cities, like London, 
Paris or Berlin, one can find some of the same description. 
The Grand Hotel, of Paris, and the Central, of Berlin, 
occupy each, quite a "block," and their cost ran into 
the millions, as well as that of the ground they occupy. 
Moderate-sized hotels, however, are the rule. In these, 



i 9 : 



CONTINENTAL HOTELS. 



the space devoted to public rooms, — parlors, reading- 
rooms, etc., — seems quite abridged to our extravagant 
notions. Such suites of public parlors as we find in our 
grandest hotels are rare indeed. In the Lounger's hotel 
off the Rue St. Honore, in Paris, reception-room, parlor 
and reading-room were all one, and frequented by guests 
of both sexes. It was a comfortable hotel, largelv 
patronized by English families. The lack of these fine 
rooms is often largely compensated by the inner-court or 
inclosed square, which is beautified with turf and trees 
and flowers. This inner-court is beginning to be a feature 
of recently built American hotels also. The rooms 
opening on this are far more desirable than those on the 
noisy streets, abroad. The dining-room, opening on 
such a flower-garden, with sometimes a fountain in play, 
is especially pleasant. The Lounger found even in some 
of the dingiest and dirtiest continental towns, about the 
hotels and elsewhere, more evidence of a taste for flowers 
than is usually exhibited in our esthetic country. Scarce 
any hotel dining-table was considered an fait without 
them, and often the staircases were adorned with rare 
plants and blooming exotics. 

Whilst at first the untraveled American hardly takes 
kindly to the European system of hotel charges, he often 
comes to regard it as, after all, the fairest and best. He 
pays for his room according to its location, and with his 
meals, for what he orders, — at least in theory. In prac- 
tice, unless he keeps some track of his orders and the 
items of his bill as rendered, he may pay for something 
more. But there is a tariff of fixed charges for almost 
everything you are likely to want, and it will afford you 
pleasant exercise to commit it to memory! Then, "cut 
your coat according to your cloth," — being sure that 



CONTINENTAL HOTELS. ^3 

there will be plenty of those who "stand and wait" 
around for the scraps and pieces left over. Try and 
match the head-waiter's book-keeping with your knowl- 
edge of arithmetic — and you may come out nearly even ! 
One of the "institutions" on the tourist line of travel 
abroad is the "table d'hote" dinner — a fixed-course 
meal at a fixed hour, at a fixed price. Your American 
abroad for the first time is sure to take it. If there is 
any table in Europe that he dotes on it is the table 
d'hote, for it reminds him somewhat of the public hotel 
table at home. Your reserved Englishman may sit 
down at table aside, to his special dinner ordered from a 
few favorite and well-cooked dishes, preferring such to 
all the long rigmarole of stewed, roast and boiled. The 
Lounger deems that he has the best of it. He is a little 
"out of touch" thereby with the throng of travelers, but 
what he possibly loses in sociability, he gains in digesti- 
bility. With slight modifications, the same "table 
d'hote" dinner pervades tourist-Europe. The Lounger 
found it (to his sorrow) a conventional dinner, invented, 
perhaps, by some French cook or landlord, to give the 
maximum of filling capacity and high-sounding menu, 
comprising a wonderful succession of soup, fish, flesh 
and fowl, ragouts and stews, followed by flabby puddings 
and other dyspeptic compounds, classed under "sweets," 
(a sop to Cerberus, the English) and ending up with 
knotty, wilted and colicky fruits, for "dessert." 

The man who can withstand the contagion of example 
and the feverish thirst induced by the gormandizing of 
so much spiced meat, for a mortal hour and a half, 
without adding thereto a bottle of the "wine of the 
country," or some other country,— is a better total 
abstainer than usually finds his way across the Atlantic. 

14 



ip 4 CONTINENTAL HOTELS. 

To add to this, the drinking water abroad has long been 
discredited as to purity and wholesomeness. According 
to a witty Frenchman, it has "so tasted of sinners ever 
since the Flood" that not many of the natives can be 
induced to indulge in it — and yet the Lounger survived 
the rash attempt of quenching his thirst therewith — on 
several occasions. 

Well, the Lounger will suppose, that having sojourned 
for many days already at the preferred hotel of your 
favored town for the time being, — so long, indeed, that 
you have exhausted all the flavors of its special antiquities 
or celebrities, and all the antique flavors of the hotel 
"table-d'hote" as well, until, after daily sequence of 
promotion at said table, step by step you have risen to 
the very top — you conclude it is now due time to "step 
down and out" once for all. In short — you are ready 
for fresh fields and new table-d'hotes — you are prepared 
to leave ! Of this fact, and the train you propose to 
take, you are expected to give timely notice. You do 
not, however, settle your bill at "the office" — the 
"bureau." At least that is not the customary way. At 
your last meal before leaving, you ask your table-waiter 
for it. He brings it — and its length will astonish you ! 
You may be reminded of the classic saying that "our 
sins are like the dragon's teeth scattered by Cadmus: 
when sown they rise up like armed men against us." 
Here, the ghostly shadows of everything you have eaten 
for the past week, every little indulgence of the appetite, 
reappear and confront like those dread spectres to guilty 
Richard on the eve of Bosworth — and, like those, insist 
that the score shall be cleared off, the reckoning paid ! 

If you find the indictment to be a true bill, you send it 
back with the round money to cash it on the salver.. 



CONTINENTAL HOTELS. ^5 

When the waiter returns it to you receipted, with the 
change, then is the time for you to vary the monotony 
of proceeding by giving a little change to him; leaving 
on said salver as many francs or marks or guldens as 
your liberality will prompt, or your purse allow. 

Then when you leave your room, your chamber-maid, 
your room-waiter, your "boots" and your baggage-porter 
will rally around you, each seizing some satchel, parcel 
or wrap, and escort you, as a guard of honor, down to 
your cab. You feel that it would be the crowning 
disappointment of their lives if you should fail to bestow 
a gratuity on each, after all their kindness. A little page 
stands at the door, who has opened it for you many 
times. Please do not have so treacherous a memory as 
to forget him, much less that other boy who attended the 
"lift," which we call the "elevator." You may think 
that inasmuch as you have paid for every possible thing 
under the sun that you have enjoyed in this hotel, and 
probably a few more — and then paid roundly beside for 
1 service ' as a special item in the bill, that this lets you out ! 
But they dont think so, and they show that their sensitive 
feelings are so acutely touched that you can scarce fail 
to "remember them." You had thought, as a matter of 
principle you wouldn't — but as a matter of practice you 
do. Public opinion counts for something — and the public 
opinion of this hotel is unanimously against your view of 
it. Then if you have any gratitude left, after all these 
assaults upon it, you will "remember" the portier hand- 
somely — for he really has been of great service to you. 
Such a treasure the unsophisticated Lounger found first 
at his hotel in Paris — and begged to be informed as to 
what his real position was in the establishment. The 
reply came in good English: "I am the 'All Porter." 



196 



CONTINENTAL HOTELS. 



He had learned English by sound alone — but it was truer 
as he pronounced it. He was the all-inclusive epitome 
of hotel knowledge and usefulness. 

So after remembering fairly the portier that he may 
remember you gratefully, you are ready to depart. All 
the attaches are drawn up again, as they were on your 
arrival. The landlord bows and smiles farewell (you 
have really paid him a big fee in that charge for ' service' 
in the bill) and if you have made the rest feel happy, 
they all bow and smile and wish you a pleasant journey, 
and you roll off toward the station, feeling that you are a 
pretty good fellow on the whole, and how pleasant it is 
"to scatter plenty o'er a smiling land ! " But while your 
heart is lighter thereby — just so, alas, is your pocket- 
book ! 




AT HOTEL TROMBETTA. 



At last we were in Italy ! In half an hour of the 
mild boredom of subterranean railway transit, we had 
traversed the sequence of ten long years and eight miles 
of solid rock, that first great bore of the Alps, the Mt. 
Cenis Tunnel. 

Then, dashing down the gorges, through succession of 
a dozen other tunnels, great and small, with glimpses of 
cloud-wreathed, splintered peaks and more distant snow- 
capped Alpine summits, we sped along — following the 
picturesque course of the Dora — past villages and towns 
perched amid rocky defiles, with little checker-patches 
of yellow wheat, clinging to bare cliffs far overhead; on 
down through the chestnut forests of the foot-hills, and 
out to the fair plains of Piedmont, bright in the afternoon 
sunshine, and rich with grass and fruit and waving grain. 

We stayed for the moment our steps in Turin, that 
city of ancient lineage but of modern glories; the chief 
being that it was the birth-place of Italian Unity, and 
that it haply nurtured King and Statesman, whose patri- 
otic ambition refused to be constrained within the narrow 
confines of the old duchy of Savoy. Here in Piedmont, 
but a brief generation ago, lingered the sole remnant of 
Italian independence, the last shadow of nationality for 
that race whose ancestors once dominated the world. 
From Turin, as a center of influence and action, radiated 
the inspiring hope, the far-reaching thought and plan 

197 



198 



AT HOTEL TROMBETTA. 



that compassed successively and finally, throughout all 
Italy, the overthrow of hateful tyranny, the expulsion of 
the Austrian and the Bourbon. Then came the moulding 
of all those diverse states into one autonomy, the reali- 
zation of that patriotic dream of a United Italy. 

The scepter and sword of Victor Emanuel, the musket 
of Garibaldi, the restless heart and fiery tongue and pen 
of Mazzini; these w r ere, indeed, potent factors toward 
triumphant success, — but what had been all these but 
for the repressing, controlling, commanding intellect, the 
mighty brain of Cavour ! 

It was a most appropriate sequence that, for six years, 
Turin should enjoy the honor of the seat of government, 
the capital and court of the new Kingdom of Italy. 
Then she gracefully ceded it in turn to Florence and to 
Rome. 

We quartered ourselves at the Hotel Trombetta in the 
Via di Roma. This hostelry is, perchance, not * ' starred " 
in Baedeker but, as memorably happy days are sometimes 
said to be "set with a white stone," so this first evening 
in Italy shines out now against the darkness of the past 
as a white star, in conjunction with the young comet 
which actually heralded the Lounger's advent — and some 
of its mild effulgence illuminates in recollection even the 
commonplace Hotel Trombetta. We had heard much 
of the overreaching nature of the Italian landlord, but 
by mine host at Turin, our first example, if the Lounger 
was in any wise defrauded he never discovered the fact, 
and so in any event, according to good authority, "was 
not robbed at all." On the contrary, we found him, 
whether in or out of that little den of an office on the 
ground-floor, most courteous and obliging — with his 
hotel all one could reasonably ask. The tourist-season 



AT HOTEL TROHBETTA. T g 9 

was now nearly over, there were but few guests in the 
house, so we had it mostly to ourselves, and the best of 
it, including a room on the first-floor, opening on a 
gallery, which in turn looked down upon an inner court 
below, away from the noises of the street. 

After removing the soil of travel and refreshing ourselves 
with supper, we found it still early enough to make some 
survey of the city and surroundings, — so the Lounger 
queried of the landlord whether it would not be well to take 
a drive. The jolly host not only spoke English fluently, 
but replied in graceful diction, which, perchance, in the 
mellow cadences of his native tongue might have melted 
into poetry itself: — - 

"Why not, Signore? Is there not ample time? 'Tis 
indeed the favored hour. The sun has just gone down 
behind the Alps; in the beautiful public-gardens of the 
suburbs and along the banks of the Po, the air will be 
refreshing and every prospect at its best. At your 
service, Signore, — shall I call a carriage?" 

This was indeed up to the mark of the Lounger's high 
anticipation that in this land of the south even the 
landlords would have a pleasing grace of expression. 
And yet he may possibly come to find before he leaves 
Italy that while some of them are given to romance, they 
do not invariably speak in blank verse ! 

So the carriage was called, and rolled down the Via 
Roma, past Piazza San Carlo, where stands in imperish- 
able bronze the statue of Duke Emmanuel Philibert, old 
" Tete de Fer," mounted as when he rode into the fray 
at St. Quentin's, winning the battle over the French for 
Philip II. and regaining for himself and descendants the 
Duchy of Savoy. Then on to the more spacious Piazza 
Castello, the heart of the city, with its Palazzo Madama, 



200 AT HOTEL TliOMBETTA. 

the ancient castle of William of Monferrat, and the more 
modern Royal Palace, which exteriorly has little appear- 
ance of a palace at all. 

Thence by the broad avenue of the Via di Po, flanked 
by arcades with handsome shops which seen later when 
fully illuminated for the evening, present a most brilliant 
appearance, — to the Po itself, and by its banks southward, 
a beautiful drive, surveying the heights opposite, the 
historic "hill of the Capuchins," with villas overlooking 
the city and country; and on to the New Public Gardens, 
whose extensive grounds include not only a Botanic 
Garden but also a royal chateau, of the seventeenth 
century, "II Valentino," now occupied by the Polytech- 
nic School. 

And then we are driven across the city to the western 
suburbs, where we get a view of the Alps stretched against 
the evening sky, from Monte Rosa and other snow- 
crowned peaks of the Pennine chain on the north, 
sweeping the far circuit of the Graian and the Cottian 
Alps to the west, in the long arc of almost a semi-circle, 
around to Monte Viso on the southwest pointing down 
toward the Maritime Alps which, with the Appenines, 
shut off Piedmont from the sea. Grand seat in her fertile 
valleys and grand background against her snowy mountains 
has the beautiful city of Turin ! 

The return to the city and our hotel is made by way 
of the Piazza D'Armi, the grand course, where all the 
wealth and fashion of Turin display themselves and their 
fine equipages, at this hour of summer evening. The 
drive has been a varied and interesting one and, taking 
it all in all, the charge therefor fails to strike the Lounger 
as very exorbitant, being but two francs, or forty cents 
of our money, pour boire included ! 



AT HOTEL TROMBETTA. 2 Ol 

And later, until the warm dusk of summer evening 
gave place to the freshening coolness of dewy summer 
night, we sat out upon the balcony of the hotel, and 
watched the throng in Via Roma below, as they sauntered 
along; the ladies with no other head-gear than a corner 
of black lace, but every man, woman and child carrying 
and lightly waving a fan. 

So as we sat and noted the crowd, all apparently as 
light-hearted and merry as their favored race should be, 
our visions, like the last gleams that had faded an hour 
or two ago on the Cottian summits, were rose-colored. 
So far there had come to us no hint of disillusion or 
disappointment. The overture was just as it had musically 
been ringing in our ears since the days of boyhood. 
The curtain would now roll up and the opera (Italian) 
would begin. We were already within the happy confines 
of that land longed for during so many years. Land of 
sunny skies and flowery plains and fertile glebe that for 
more than two thousand years had yielded a free tribute 
of corn and oil, of fruit and wine ! Land of gray history 
and great deeds of old ! Blest land of art, of music and 
of song ! We should come to behold its heaped-up 
treasures of the centuries past, its grand dower of 
Sculpture and Architecture, its pictured glories of the 
Renaissance. We should float in our gondola by moon- 
light, between rows of marble palaces, on the Grand 
Canal; we should come to lodge in a grim old mediaeval 
fortress-palace of Florence ! 

And so we lingered before going to rest and more 
happy anticipatory dreams — and thanked the kindly stars 
that looked down upon that balcony of the Hotel Trom- 
betta, that at last we were in Italy ! 



AT PENSION GIOTTI. 



"Firenze," shouted the " guard," as he threw open 
the door of our compartment: "Fi-ren-ze," reiterated 
half a dozen railway porters, their eyes as well as their 
tongues u in a fine phrenzy rolling," — and we stepped out 
upon the platform of the Stazione Centrale of Florence, 
— "Firenze la Bella." 

We had just come into our long-coveted heritage of 
Italy ! We had traversed the fertile valleys and fair 
plains of Piedmont, and then sped southward across 
the Appenines. From the crested heights of its bold 
semi -circular arc, mantled with bristling enceinture of 
frowning forts, and girdled with its adamantine wall of 
mountain, we had looked down upon a city, whose 
association with the name of our great discoverer has 
made it memorable to all Americans. We had noted 
with admiring eyes its rising palatial mansions of brightly 
painted marble ranged on every hand, substantial evidences 
of present prosperity — and then surveyed beneath, the 
narrow streets flanked with ancient palaces that still 
speak eloquently of the old-time glories and greatness of 
Genoa the Proud. Beyond the two Moles, which form 
an intermitted chord subtending this arc and enclosing 
the sightly harbor, spread out to the infinite horizon, 
sparkling and flashing in the noonday sun of the Levant, 
we had beheld, for the first time, the beautiful Mediter- 
ranean, and like the soldiers of Xenophon, we had 
exclaimed, "the Sea — the Sea!" 

202 



AT PENSION QIOTTI. 203 

Again with the speed of the express, we had stretched 
our course along the never-to-be-forgotten Riviera, one 
of the most picturesque of railway journeys in the world. 
On our left, the bold cliffs, or sunny slopes of the 
Appenines, clad with forests of wild olive, or dotted with 
bright villas owning fruitful groves and shining with 
tropic luxuriance of lemon, of aloe and of olive; with 
anon, rugged and ragged walls of moldering old castles, 
perched on rocky heights, or the opening clefts of valleys 
coursed by brawling streams tumbling down to the sea; 
or the breaks filled in with a heterogenous repletion of 
irregular old towns and villages, made up of tall and 
narrow old stone houses piled up in apparent promiscuous 
confusion. And on the right hand, always the broad 
expanse of the Mediterranean, bright in the sunshine, 
blue in the shadow, as the clouds floated lightly away, or 
as lightly hung poised in the heavens. 

At one moment we had skirted a long sandy beach, or 
had rounded one of those still bays of peacock-blue; at 
another, the track pierced a bold promontory, and our 
train had dashed into the cool depths of rock, where 
through lateral galleries we caught flashing glimpses of 
the white of sky and the blue of water — and the next 
moment we would be again out amid the dazzling sunlight, 
in full view of mountain and of sea. Some eighty 
tunnels repeat for four-score times this shifting play of 
color, this alternate transition of the darkness and the 
light. 

On past Spezia, with its beautiful bay now forever 
associated sadly with the memory of the gifted, the 
unfortunate Shelley; on past many an old mediaeval 
town and fort, or the ruined site of some far older town 
of the days of the Romans,— and there rises at length 



204 



AT PENSION aiOTTI. 



before the traveler, a vision of the beautiful Carrara 
Mountains, distinct in summit outline but gray, spectral, 
ethereal, poetic; the very wraith or ghost of a mountain 
range, save, indeed, where in spots gashed and riven by 
quarries for their renowned marbles, they shine dazzling 
white in the sunlight. 

Then pausing at Pisa, the Lounger had fairly twisted 
the axis of his eyes in gazing upon its wonderful Leaning 
Tower, the puzzle of the centuries. Much idle specula- 
tion has been indulged in, indeed, concerning its deflection 
from the "Perpendicular" style of architecture — over- 
looking the obvious explanation that its old contractor- 
builder, growing dubious when half done as to his final 
outcome of payment, had decided to take a lean upon it 
thenceforth ! The Italians of those times even were well 
versed in finance — the Lombards of Italy far ante-dating 
those of Kansas City. Building operations were well 
comprehended — by the Banks and Loan Companies — 
and fine blocks went up, fitted out with the "modern 
improvements." Many a sumptuous palace had a mort- 
gage attachment — and nearly every Campanile in Italy 
took a lean, as is apparent to this day. That was the 
reason they always detached the bell-tower from the 
Cathedral, so that the latter wouldn't have a lean-to ! 

Grateful in the hot mid-day had been the marble 
Baptistery of Pisa, cool and dim — and in its venerable 
Cathedral close at hand, the Lounger had viewed with 
interest that famous old bronze chandelier, whose vibra- 
tions once happily suggested to Galileo the first idea of 
the pendulum. Unfortunately, when it came to applying 
these discoveries of scientific principles, his life never 
"went on like clock-work" thereafter. 

And then, three hours' ride up the valley of the Arno, 



AT PENSION QIOTTT. 



205 



through the rich heart of Tuscany, had brought us at 
last to Florence. Historic, artistic, poetic, beautiful 
Florence ! At the mention of thy name what memories 
throng our minds ! Swift retrospect of factious fighting 
Guelphs and Ghibellines — of plotting Medici, and Mach- 
iavelli; admiring recollection of Dante and Boccacio, of 
Galileo and Alfieri; fond associations with Cimabue and 
Giotto, with Filippo Lippi, Botticelli, Luca della Robbia 
and Donatello; grand, inspiring memories of Fra Angelico 
and Savonarola, of Brunelleschi, Ghiberti and Michael 
Angel o ! 

Has the Lounger left the reader too long at the railway 
station in Florence — or rather, carried him too far back 
upon the road ! Well, then, we will at once take a cab, 
of which there is a fair supply on hand. It is but a short 
drive to the center of the city, and immediately we pass 
one of the notable churches of Florence, San Maria di 
Novello, dating back to the thirteenth century, and 
boasting the celebrated frescoes of Ghirlandajo. Striking 
into the Via dei Fossa, we are soon on the banks of the 
Arno. One look at this long, straight, turbid canal, 
diagonally intersecting the city, is sufficient — the romance 
is all gone off the Arno ! 

We cross the Ponte Carraja, for we are bound for the 
south side, "Altr' Arno." The recommendation of a 
friend has committed us to a new experience, we are to 
be quartered at a Pension — " Pension Giotti." This 
broad quay of a street that lines the Arno on that side is 
Lung D' Arno Soderini, and the grim old corner building 
ranging at the head and extending down the thoroughfare 
of Via Serraglia is the old Soderini Palace and our 
destination. Now comes the exciting part of our drive. 



206 AT PENSION GIOTTI. 

The Italian Jehu can wield the whip-cord even as the 
cow-boy of our plains, and with a perfect tumult of 
lashes and cries and a grand fusillade of whip-crackings, 
we storm down the street to the portal of Pension Giotti ! 
This is the conventional arrival. It is, indeed, no more 
a martial cavalcade of mediaeval chiefs in glistening mail, 
with a retinue of bold men-at-arms, coming to claim the 
hospitality of the Palace; it is not even any of the heads 
of the great House of Soderini themselves, returning 
home from council, or the field ! Notwithstanding all 
the din, it is simply a pair of humble Americans in a 
"one-horse shay" of a fiacre, coming to quarter with 
Madam Giotti in her Pension at eight francs per diem, 
"wine of the country" included ! 

Warned by the signal, ancient Francesco — major-domo, 
head-waiter, porter, and general factotum of the estab- 
lishment, the surviving Caleb Balderstone of the Palace — 
appears to receive us, and we are ushered up the old 
staircase to the first-floor, where we are welcomed, in 
good fluent English, by Madam Giotti herself. She is a 
pleasant-looking landlady, fat and fully forty, though, 
being Italian, hardly "fair" as well. As to Mr. Giotti, 
Signore Giotti, if, indeed, he existed in the flesh, we 
could have seen him but once, at day of our departure, 
associating him then with personality of the man that 
made out our bill. Unlike Madam, he was scant in 
rotundity of figure, and therefore not at all "round as 
the O of Giotto." In extent, indeed, somewhat like his 
own bills, he was in all respects "a spare man." 

We are assigned a spacious, carpeted room adjoining 
the salon and overlooking the Via Seraglia. This outlook 
is pleasant by day, whilst most of the old building other- 
wise is rather gloomy and dismal, with its brick and stone 



AT PENSION GIOTTI. 



207 



floors and its dingy corridors. Portions of it impressed 
us as somewhat on the order of a states-prison for political 
offenders. The guests just then were but few, only some 
four in all besides ourselves, and all English, — chief 
among whom in the Lounger's recollection is a literary- 
minded young man of delicate lungs, and his widowed 
mother, evidently devoted to his care. The preceding 
winter they had spent in Corfu, and soon they would 
be taking flight, to the cooler shades of Vallambrosa. 

The Lounger gleaned only a partial history of the 
notable building in which he was lodged. It dates back 
into the Middle Ages. In one room connected with the 
pile, Niccolo Soderini received St. Catherine of Sienna, 
some time about 1380. But of this noble family, the 
most illustrious was Piero Soderini, who at the begin- 
ning of the sixteenth century was given life tenure as 
chief of the commonwealth, "perpetual" Gonfaloniere 
of Florence. The history of his administration is inti- 
mately connected with that of Machiavelli, who served 
under him, both in important embassies and as conqueror 
of Pisa. By force of his great ability usually influencing 
and swaying largely the Soderini, yet Machiavelli could 
never quite forgive that it had been impossible to bend 
him wholly to the exercise of that subtle or strenuous 
policy which he himself alternately favored. In those 
wicked times, the crafty secretary could hardly account 
for such simplicity of character or goodness of heart, 
contemptuously satirizing them after the Gonfaloniere's 
death, in these lines: 

•• The night that Peter Soderini died, 

His soul flew down into the mouth of hell ; 
1 What ? Hell for you ? You silly spirit ! ' cried 

The fiend : ' Your place is where the babies dwell ! ' " 



2o8 AT PENSION GIOTTI. 

But the old Palace has seen its best days. Its ground- 
floor seemed even more lonesome than the pension above. 
The Lounger recalls a cigar-shop, indeed, and up toward 
the bridge, offices of some kind; possibly a bank, a 
broker's, a barber's, or some other form of shaving-shop — 
being inconspicuous enough for either. Whilst but little 
commerce was carried on in the old building, it was just 
that much more than owned by its next neighbor, the 
Rinuccini Palace at the corner of Fondaccio di San 
Spirito. This more modern edifice, with its coat-of-arms 
over the doorway, had been built in the sixteenth century, 
by that painter, sculptor and architect, Luigi Cardi 
Cigola. 

But across the way, on the opposite side of Via 
Serraglia, there were more signs of activity. First, a 
wine-shop on the corner; next a green-grocer's with a 
luscious store of ripe tomatoes, and then came a fruit 
stand, just opposite our windows. Some of the tomatoes 
the Lounger was daring enough afterward to buy and 
send with his compliments, by Francesco, to Madam 
Giotti, with request that they might be sliced down to 
add variety to the regulation dinner. Following this 
measure, the Lounger's plate was thereafter abundantly 
supplied with that "esculent." No doubt the Italians 
themselves delight in vegetables, for their markets abound 
with them — but, as the regulation table-d'hote dinners 
are confined to fish, flesh and fowl, they no doubt opine 
that the foreigner desires none other. 

And the Lounger yet hears, in fancy, the shrill note of 
that fruit vendor opposite, as in the hot stillness of the lazy 
afternoon he would break out in a spasm of " Ci-li-geio ! 
— Bel-la! Bel-la! — Ci-li-geio /" Cherries — beautiful 
cherries ! — and sure, the cherries of Italy in their glossy 



AT PENSION GIOTTI. 



209 



red or black pulpiness, are both beautiful and delicious; 
but all the livelong day, and far into the hot summer 
night, we got tired of hearing of it, all the same ! And 
yet other noises there were that, one or another, arose to 
the Lounger's window, and in conjunction with other 
matters, " murdered sleep" for him! The shuffle and 
tramp and clatter of many feet along the middle of the 
street ! The sidewalks in many of the towns in Southern 
Europe being largely devoted to other purposes— as other 
Loungers abroad will be reminded — much of the foot- 
travel takes the middle of the street as, on the whole, 
least objectionable. Then the late customers at the 
corner wine-shop below would get boozy, and, judging 
by the outcry, were declaring in obstreperous, drunken 
Italian that they "wouldn't go home till morning!" 
Then the cabs and the carriages returning from the 
Cascine, and every other place in and around Florence, 
all seemed to strike Via Serraglia, the great thoroughfare 
from one side of the Arno to the other, across the city. 
Hour after hour they would throng noisily by. It did 
seem as if the Florentines never went to bed on summer 
nights — especially on moonlight or "festa" nights! 

At last, even the very latest pair of noisy, boozy, 
quarrelsome, wineshop customers had departed. The 
sound of " Ci-le-geio bella" had long since been hushed. 
A single, minute representative of that acrobatic and 
elusive tribe of Southern Europe, which has been char- 
acterized as ' ' the wicked, " even ' ' when no man pursueth, " 
even that "wicked had ceased from troubling." Silence 
had finally descended "like a poultice to heal the blows 
of sound." The weary and exhausted Lounger would 
at last be sinking into rest. But just before this final 
consummation of unconsciousness, there would come a 

15 



2io AT SUMMIT OF SIMPLON PASS. 

far-off echo, a faint rumble which would gather into a 
more decided ryhthmic roll. And this would grow, and 
louder grow, "nearer, clearer, deadlier than before," till 
finally, with clatter and crash and whip-cracking and yell, 
with all the vigor of Pandemonium let loose, once more 
down the Via Serraglia would come the Italian Jehu with 
his Jiacre — in front of the old Palace Soderini; in front 
of Pension Giotti ! 



AT SUMMIT OF SIMPLON PASS. 



We stand uplifted to the skies ! 
But higher yet the mountains rise, 
Above, around, on every hand; — 
With range to our range opposed 
Th' vast horizon north is closed; 
At will the eye may rove and turn, 
From Pennine chain to Alps of Berne: 
Across a mighty chasm, stand 
In serried rank, serene and grand, 
The shining peaks of Oberland ! 

Encircling mountains by the score, 
W T hose thund'rous avalanches shower 
Down mighty slopes, with Titan power, 
The snows that feed its swelling tide, — 
Rifted and wrinkled and petrified, 
The Aletsch glacier's torrent vast, 
For many a spreading league is cast. 



at summit of simplon pass. 

A part of its sinuous course is hid 
Behind black cone and pyramid, 
That, jutting skyward, appear to be 
Tall islands in a frozen sea ! 

Ever the glacier holds its course, 
Type of the slowest, surest force ! 
Ever the Aletsch swells and gains, 
Bearing on to its grand moraines, 
And surging downward, to depths below, 
Not only flows, but seems to flow. 

* * * * * $ 

Turn we at length from fields of air,— 
From fields of ice, and summits bare, 
With winter reigning everywhere ! 
Here, miles away, yet at our feet, 
There lies a prospect fair and sweet; 
Sprinkled with dots of color warm, 

Of town and chalet, croft and farm: 

With thread of silver seaming down 
A verdant vale, that stretches on, 
Hemmed in by giant walls of stone, 
By Brieg— by Leuk— past far Sion,— 
The long green valley of the Rhone ! 



211 



SOME SWISS INNS. 



Somebody has described Switzerland as a land of 
mountains and hotels, and certainly, within the circuit 
of its confines, the innkeeper may be regarded as almost 
ubiquitous. If you ascend to the top of the mountain, 
lo, he is there ! If you make your bed in the remotest 
valley, the very next night he will be there to make it for 
you, with fairly clean sheets, for five francs, — "attend- 
ance" two francs extra. If you take the wings of the 
morning (the cheapest mode of travel in Switzerland, 
where railway "Passes" are scarce) and fly to the 
uttermost parts of Canton Grisons, he will already be on 
hand, with bread and butter (or honey) and a cup of 
coffee, for breakfast — at two francs ! 

In the wildest solitudes of the crags, or threading the 
slippery edge of a glacier, you turn a corner, and behold 
the Swiss hotel right before you, — with a smiling landlord 
and a knot of guests, who have already secured the rooms 
with the best view; each flourishing an alpenstock, with 
the names of a dozen Swiss passes branded thereon. 

That venerable Alpine resident who once warned 
"Excelsior," in the language of the high railway-official 
when the "Inter-State Commerce" went into effect — 
"Try not the Pass" — has since been superseded. 

You leave your restful inn at Chamounix, and the 
agreeable diversion of accompanying the tourist ascent 
of Mt. Blanc (by telescope), and join the long procession 

212 



SOME SWISS INNS. 213 

that toils up Montanvert. At the first halting place you 
discern a cabaret by the roadside with the inscription: 
tt Jci on voit un chamois, vrai et vivant /" Surprised to 
learn that notwithstanding, or on account of, the plenti- 
tude of their skins in American drug-stores, a "genuine 
live chamois" has become almost as rare in Europe as 
the mountain-sheep of the Rockies, you stop to inspect 
the curiosity — and patronize the owner. As you progress 
farther up the woodland trail, other kindly natives start 
forth with proffers of refreshment for the worn traveler, 
and their spring is associated with this injunction: 
" Drink weary pilgrim, drink— and pay ! " 

Arrived at the summit you find an inn, with a Parisian 
menu, and a lot of people eating and drinking therein. 
They are always eating and drinking in Switzerland — 
when they are not climbing mountains, or branding 
alpenstocks, or buying souvenirs of wood-carving and 
agate jewelry. It is a perpetual picnic wherever you go. 
Whenever the tourist gets tired of nature, or eating, he 
rests up by shopping for souvenirs — and the shops, like 
the inns, are always at hand. 

You descend to the Mer-de-Glace, cross it, and, 
traversing the lateral moraine at side of Aiguille du Dru, 
your guide suddenly gesticulates and exclaims: "Mon- 
sieur, voila le Chapeau, et voici le Mauvais Pas/ 1 '' and 
then plunges down the precipice, apparently. You follow 
him perforce, and when at length, at peril of your life 
you have rounded the last slippery point of the narrow, 
hanging shelf, you come to "the Chapeau" — where you 
find another lot of people, eating and drinking ! 

In the wildest haunts of nature, amid the deepest 
recesses of her mountains, you can always secure what 
you wish — if you will only pay. All the luxuries in or 



214 



SOME SWISS INNS. 



out of season, the choicest vintages and viands, the very 
best cuts of meat ! The Lounger once heard an indignant 
Briton exclaiming at what he called the arrant hum- 
buggery of the landlords and their French cooks. "A 
filet, you know, is a tenderloin steak. Well, these fellows 
always have it, or will provide it for you. One of them 
actually said to me: 'we are out, but for three francs I 
will make you a filet. ' Just think of it, they would make 
me a filet ! They would take a piece of ' round ' and 
pound and braise and lard and spice and garnish it, and 
turn me out a filet. " 

In the innocence of his heart, this honest islander had 
always supposed that a tenderloin steak — like the poet — 
was "born not made." 

And yet, notwithstanding the proverbial sordidness of 
the landlords, the theatric effects often imposed upon the 
scenery, and the "posing" of the tourists themselves, the 
Lounger found still some nature unspoiled, some grandeur 
and beauty yet unvulgarized, some inns enjoyable and 
worthy a recollection, even in Switzerland ! Sweet was our 
rest "at evening's close," after the long day's journey 
crossing the Simplon, — at the homely hostelry of "Three 
Crowns and Post" of Brieg. Not at all to be despised was 
the hospitality of Hotel Clerc at Martigny, near where lin- 
gers yet that "old round tower of other days " which looks 
out upon snowy mountain tops and up the beautiful, 
green Rhone valley, hemmed in, on either hand, by 
mountain walls. No word of proud scorn has the 
Lounger for even the famed Schvveitzerhof at Lucerne, 
with its band of music at table-d'hote, its lively waiters, 
and its good round prices, which were also "square," 
with no extra "service" in them. Memorable shall be 
the humble "Lion Noir" at Altorf, the famous little 



SOME S WISS INNS. 



215 



village where, once on a time, bold William Tell shot an 
apple off his son's head, straight down the street at eighty 
paces — or around the corner as the street now winds, 
one hundred and twenty yards as the Lounger paced it. 
Whatever the actual truth in "the Tell myth," — whether 
happening in Norway, in Persia or nowhere except in the 
imagination of all the Aryan race, — there was at least no 
mistake about the excellent quality of the lunch at the 
"Lion Noir, " or the excellent serving by the respected 
daughters of "mine host," — and their refusal of a fee 
afterward. This actually happened in Switzerland ! 

Neither does the Lounger harbor any harsh feelings 
toward the landlord of the Hotel de Londres at Chamonix, 
in that he raised the price of a room two francs on 
account of its superior view of Mont Blanc. Not that 
the Monarch of Mountains might not usually be seen 
just as well outside, and almost as plainly as the rushing 
Arve, soapy-gray with its dissolved detritus of glacier, 
and roaring by like a torrent beneath our window. But, 
late one night, from said window, when the Lounger 
chanced to wake and look forth, he received a revelation 
of the glory of Mt. Blanc ! There, as it lay, still and 
silent under the moonlight, the light of a gibbous moon 
which swung low above, it had an air, not so much of 
majesty, as of serene, unapproachable isolation. It 
seemed so near, and yet so far. So near, as a glistening 
snow-bank on a neighboring hill-top, from the farm-house 
window of boyhood, in the midnight of winter night, 
crisp and cold. So near as a powerful telescope brings 
into the field of vision the clear disc of a planet — and 
yet, in imaginative impression, remote as lone Uranus, 
the weird specter of a world, swaying and drifting afar 
off, through the illimitable ether of space. 



IN COMPANY. 



It was one of the happy accidents of travel that 
brought into contact, at the same table-d'hote at the old 
Hotel Victoria at Venice, the Lounger pair and a duet 
of ladies, independently taking their own "ways abroad," 
but who had become just a little tired of the loneliness 
of the same; — Fraulein Meister and Senora Grande. 
These ladies had just arrived from Germany and Austria, 
by way of Trieste. It was also a fortunate incident, as 
both parties professed on speedy acquaintanceship, that,, 
on comparing respective routes for the next few weeks, 
these were found to approximate so closely that they 
might easily be made to coincide. Being well pleased 
with each other, these "strangers in a strange land'* 
resolved, therefore, to form a temporary association, a 
limited copartnership of travel, which Company was 
incontinently dubbed "the Lounger- Meister- Grande 
Combination," — and soon voted (by themselves) to be 
altogether the most harmonious and successful traveling 
troupe starring it abroad that season. 

Possessing many like tastes and sympathies, each 
supplied to the common capital and stock in trade 
something desirable to the other. The Fraulein added 
good generalship and excellent German to the Lounger's 
inefficiency and execrable French. Senora Grande con- 
tributed a fine practical knowledge of railways, as well as 
supplemented the deficiencies of Baedeker by a most 

216 



TN COMPANY. 



217 



intimate acquaintance with the text of Mark Twain's 
travels. The equipment of the Combination, therefore, 
was quite complete. Together, in sable-painted gondola, 
by mystic moonlight or by garish day, they explored the 
canals and lagoons of Venice, her old palaces and 
prisons, her picture-galleries and cathedrals; together 
they exploited all the shops on the Piazza St. Marks and 
closed out their contents at fifty cents on the dollar — of 
what was asked. Together, on "taking the road," they 
traversed Northern Italy, made the round of her beautiful 
lakes and afterward crossed the barrier of the Alps by 
Napoleon's grand road up the Simplon Pass. Then, as 
a merry quadrille, together they executed that zig-zag 
dance, the tour of Switzerland — of which these are some 
of the familiar "figures" — "Salute," (at table-d'hote) — 
" forward four — back — forward again — cross over — 
(mountain) chain — dos-a-dos (in diligence) — swing cor- 
ners'" — and so forth and so on to the end of the dance; 
when the final word was given, "promenade all" at 
Berne; and the Meister-Grande couple took their seats — 
in a railway compartment — for Paris, leaving the some- 
what forlorn Loungers to stray around the hall, and 
finally across to Germany. 

This memorable combination at all times abounded 
with two things of similar sound which should really be 
reciprocal — good humor and good-humor ! If the wit of 
the former was sometimes at the expense of the Lounger, 
he trusts that he never forgot to keep himself in the 
latter. But outside of this, he may possibly have discov- 
ered some trifling disadvantages which at times placed 
him on the debtor side of the firm's books. These books 
were certainly out of balance in one particular — he was 
always in a hopeless minority as to sex; and what man 



218 IN COMPANY. 

can properly maintain the dignity of his estate when in 
the proportion of only one to three ! Any system of 
minority representation proves of but little avail under 
such circumstances. First and foremost, — when thus 
backed by such a force, — the Queen Consort, who, 
temporarily, through her ignorance in respect to the 
menu, the speech and the '-wine of the country," had 
been reduced to a reasonable state of domestic restraint 
and subjection to the powers that be, now suddenly 
threw off the yoke and demonstrated that we shall all be 
changed. In the twinkling of an eye, great "I" was 
obscured — put out. The Lounger was summarily deposed 
— and Queen Consort reigned in his stead ! 

Thereafter he was no longer first in a feast, or last in a 
fray — of discussion ! In fact the whole method of reason- 
ing was changed, or rather, intuition superseded reason 
entirely. Things future were prognosticated from the 
stand-point of infallible insight. Things present were 
viewed from the vantage-ground of inner-consciousness. 
The tyrannous majority looked at all things subjectively — 
and it was no manner of use for the Lounger to treat them 
objectively. It was idle for him to put himself in the 
objective case, when they were always in the possessive 
and nominative. Or to interpose a subjective "if" when 
they were plainly in both the indicative and the potential 
mood — and if necessary would be in the imperative as 
well ! 

Then when it came to the consideration of the past, 
they would always remember things and places associat- 
ively. The reader will recall a story illustrating how 
ladies illustrate their travels. A lady and her daughter 
had spent a year in Europe. On their return home, a 
morning caller asked, among other chat — "and you 



IN COMPANY. 21 



9 



visited Rome I suppose?" "Rome? — Rome? " hesitated 
the mother — "Fanny, were we in Rome?" "Oh, yes, 
Ma ! Why, dont you recollect ! Why, that was the 
place we got the bad stockings." And then the mother 
recalled Rome — through association ! 

Even yet the Lounger can see Fraulein Meister glancing 
down meditatively and approvingly on a pair of well- 
wearing (not well-worn) gloves. "Oh, we did have such 
good times in Dresden ! It is such a nice town. You 
must go to Hotel de Saxe, they have such a good portier 
there. He knows everything and was so accommodating. 
He told us of all the best places for Saxony lace, splendid 
Duchess and real Point, and so cheap ! I'll give you the 
addresses, and also of that little shop where I bought 
these gloves. I wish I had got more of them. Such a 
nice girl sold them to me. It was a little shop not far 
from the Zwingler, where the Gallery is and the Sistine, 
you know. There was nothing else in the room at all, 
and such divine eyes, so mystical and yet so tender ! 
They have certainly worn wonderfully well — but it is 
about time for a new pair though ! " 

At the end of this monologue, the Lounger begged 
that he might have the separate addresses of the shop, 
the shop-woman, the Dresden gallery, the Madonna, the 
eyes, and the gloves — for, somehow, they had all got 
badly mixed up in his mind ! But the ladies unanimously 
avowed that it was all plain enough already — only these 
stupid men never could get things straight — by intuition ! 

It is associatively too, that these ladies recall to this 
day, that little, old, double-barreled, Franco- German, 
bilingual town of Freiburg. Here the boundary line is 
distinct between the two spoken tongues in the same 
town. A "great gulf is fixed" — the deep gorge of the 



220 IN COMPANY. 

river Sarine — but traversed by a high suspension-bridge, 
which unites them. It is one of the quaint, picturesque 
and wonderful towns of Switzerland; and it contains one 
of the musical triumphs of the age, the great Freiburg 
organ with its wonderful vox humana stop, which strangers 
come from all over the world to hear. And yet, if you 
ask the ladies about Freiburg, they will tell you they 
recall it well, for in the cosy parlor of the Hotel de 
Freiburg they discovered the first pair of rocking-chairs — 
yes, real American rocking-chairs — that they had found 
in all Europe ! Now the Lounger will say in justice to 
these " compagnons de voyage" that they were usually 
amiable (except to him) and self-denying, "in honor 
preferring one another." They would sometimes proffer 
even to yield up to each other the better room in hotels, 
and that is going a great way in self-sacrifice for fellow 
travelers. But when they saw those "rockers," they 
stood on no sort of ceremony. There were but two of 
those long regretted luxuries of life — and one lady got 
left! 



A HOTEL ROMANCE. 



Late one summer afternoon, the Lounger was strolling 
down the Quai de Mont Blanc at Geneva, accompanied 
by his traveling-troupe, a bevy of three ladies. Be it 
known that the logical Lounger deems that he has as 
good authority to apply this term "bevy " to his summer 
companions as hath the ornithological editor of the 
Journal when describing his "Winter Companions" with 
"their flitting and twittering. " There may be, however, a 
distinction, with a difference ! Our younger student of 
animated nature is able to know his subject exhaustively, 
as well as to set forth faithfully and interestingly every 
varied characteristic, — while the Lounger is forced to 
confess humbly, with regard to his, that their ways are 
oftentimes past finding out ! 

While thus strolling along, contemplating the blue 
waters of Lake Geneva, and striving to pierce, in the 
southern horizon, the baffling haze that veiled the distant 
view of Mont Blanc, we suddenly and most unexpectedly 
came right upon a hotel romance ! At least, it happened 
at a hotel — and the ladies insisted that it was nothing 
less than a genuine romance. 

Just as we arrived opposite and in full view of "Hotel 
de la Paix," we espied a young lady fair sitting out alone 
on a little hanging-balcony of its second story. Then at 
that precise moment, entered into the scene, by coming 
out on the balcony, a young gentleman. And the young 

221 



222 A HOTEL ROMANCE. 

lady rose up to greet him, and they kissed each other in 
the face and eyes — of all the people below, especially the 
ladies of the Lounger party ! These were intensely 
interested at once, in the denouement, which they said was 
that of a veritable romance. Love on a balcony — a 
modern Romeo and Juliet affair, done in daylight ! In 
vain the Lounger, being a family man himself, offered 
the commonplace but common-sense solution of the 
affair — that the fair one was simply a young married 
lady, boarding at the hotel, and now giving the appro- 
priate conjugal salute (albeit rather public, indeed) to her 
husband just returning to her and his dinner after a hard 
day's work at "the bank" or "the office." The ladies 
wouldn't hear to this for a moment, declaring it was 
preposterous. On the face of it, they could see, even 
at that distance, that it wasn't that kind of a kiss at 
all. As their three pairs of eyes were sharper, as well as 
brighter than the Lounger's dull and failing orbs, he had 
to give in. Yes ! it was an undoubted romance — and if 
the Lounger had the heart of a man in him, and the pen 
of a ready writer to command, he should write it all out 
and give it to the world. They would supply the 
(imaginative) facts ! The couple we had seen were long 
parted lovers, beyond a question. The course of their 
love had not run altogether smoothly. On the contrary, 
it had been exceedingly rough for (as well as on) them. 
There had been a serious impediment — an obstruction, — 
The Lounger here suggested — an obstinate old husband 
who had persistently refused to die off? But they 
wouldn't listen to this popular style — the Ouida-Saltus 
style of romance of to-day. Theirs was of the good 
old-fashioned sort. So, they scouted — No, indeed ! A 
flinty-hearted parent, or a tyrannical old guardian, in 



A HOTEL ROMANCE. 223 

connection with the poverty of the lover — this was the 
trouble that had interfered with the happy consummation 
of the attachment ! So the maiden had been locked up 
at home, and the young man had gone off to seek 
distraction in travel. The kindly Lounger, willing to 
help out, again suggested — as a conductor of one of 
Cook's or Gaze's "personally conducted" parties — that 
would certainly afford him distraction enough ! 

At last the obstacle had been removed ! (By arsenic, 
or a bill of divorcement !) No, no — dont interrupt — by 
the young gentleman coming into a fortune, or the 
obdurate rich uncle going out with an influenza;— and 
now, the lovers, separated by the breadth of Europe, 
had come together by appointment, to meet at this hotel 
in Geneva ! 

It was this happy reuniting and the sealing of their 
transport by a kiss, that we had just witnessed. It was 
the most fortunate coincidence in the world that we had 
happened along at the precise moment when the lover had 
arrived, looked at the hotel register (the Lounger here 
interposed that people didn't usually 'register' in Europe) 
— well, then, inquired of the portier — and then rushed up, 
and found her on the balcony ! They wouldn't have 
missed the moment for the world. It was just too lovely 
for anything, and it was the very first romance they had 
come across in Europe ! They had seen nothing in Italy 
equal to it. The Lounger felt impelled to remark that 
the young man seemed to be in pretty good style of 
evening-dress, considering he had just arrived from such 
a long journey. — Oh, well, of course, he had taken time 
to dress. You wouldn't have him appear unto his lady- 
love all covered with railway dust and grime, this hot 
weather ! No, he had just waited for his trunk to come 



224 



A HOTEL ROMANCE. 



up, and in the meantime had a good bath in the hotel, 
and made himself presentable ! The Lounger was glad, 
indeed, to learn that the young gentleman had got his 
bath so readily and easily ! For himself, he had found 
it one of the hardest things to obtain at a continental 
hotel. He could recollect that at the largest hotel in 
Milan, with their one bath-tub, they had seemed disposed 
to economize time and hot water by bathing the guests 
in pairs. 

Now as the Lounger confesses that he can scarce 
construct a romance out of such thin material — the inci- 
dent being but slight, and the ladies' facts for a foundation 
somewhat problematical at best, — he would prefer to turn 
over tbe contract to some one else; to sub-let, in fact. 
To kind Mrs. Gray, of ladies-luncheon fame, for instance: 
she who once inquired, who was this maundering Lounger 
anyway, and why dont he write something interesting? 

Here it is Mrs. Gray, and all our ladies said it was 
intensely interesting, and one of the most inspiring 
spectacles they had seen abroad; happening right there 
in Geneva too, where so many spectacles were made. 
Take it, and weave around it the web of romance ! Or 
paint us the picture — if not in words, then in color ! The 
canvas, at least, is a good one. Brush in the Quay de 
Mont Blanc, with our group of admiring spectators, 
disposed just alongside of Lake Leman with its tinted 
delicious blue. The blues will work in nicely. And 
then, only a little distance to the right, the "arrowy 
Rhone" just issuing from the lake, on its journey to the 
sea. The Rhone, a trifle "off color" in its fast and 
furious and decidedly improper haste to get there. Across 
the stream, and in the middle distance, the rising heights 
of Geneva ! Paint in what is left of the old city-wall 



A HOTEL ROMANCE. 2 2$ 

and the new watch-towers of the watch factories. Above 
all, for it stands above them in fact as well as in historic 
recollections, paint in the old house of John Calvin — 
and the memory of Calvin himself. Oh ! You haven't 
enough carmine for that ! Well then, save some for this 
hill beyond — the "Place de Champel" — where Calvin 
put Servetus in the way of being roasted, in order that 
his heart might "within him burn to know the better 
way." It puts one out of all patience with heresy, to 
recall that in spite of Calvin's kindly efforts to convert 
him, Servetus obstinately refused to turn from the error 
of his ways — even when done to a turn ! 

Out there in the far perspective, indicate, oh artist, as 
fairly as may be, the vision of Mont Blanc ! Mont 
Blanc, indeed, can hardly be seen every day, or at every 
hour perhaps of any day — but the picture of Geneva 
without the distant view of Mont Blanc would be out of 
all character if not "out of drawing." So it "must go in." 

And now, work up the foreground ! Put a good deal 
of strength into the balcony, for, slight as it is, it must 
safely hold two enraptured lovers, disregardful alike of 
time, space, spectators, and the tenacity of the iron 
brackets beneath them. Then introduce the lovers 
themselves — or rather, as they have long since been 
"introduced" of course, paint in, first the lady with a 
very engaging expression on her face, and then work in 
the hero with an "engaged" expression all about him! 

Last of all, — the kiss by all means ! — 

•■ Jenny kissed him when they met, 
Jumping from the chair she sat in : 
Time, you thief, who loves to get 
Sweets upon your list, put that in : " 

And Mrs. Gray, do not fail to imitate old Time in 
this one respect, and — put that in ! 

16 



THE OLD BIBLE INN. 



Quaint old hotel, in a delightfully quaint old city, is 
the venerable Bible House of Amsterdam. 

Approaching the city from the sea, the traveler enters 
the "Y," an arm of Zuyder Zee, which thrusts its wrist 
of a harbor and its fingers of canals into the quaggy land. 
Reverse the approach and the application of the figure, 
and one might liken Amsterdam itself, from the similitude 
it bears, to the outline of a human hand from wrist to 
finger tips, with its lines of tendons and network of arteries 
and veins. It is the broad, thick hand of the Hollander ! 

Six centuries ago, the original Dutchman came here 
where the sluggish, muddy Amstel slowly filtered into the 
sea. He put down that hand, strong and broad if some- 
what pudgy withal, making its impress upon the peat-bog 
which was all that then represented dry land, — and the 
quaking bog became fixed and solid. 

With all the assiduity of a beaver, he sharpened timbers 
and drove down piles, any number of them, yea piles of 
them. Be it not forgotten that Amsterdam bears a 
name as legitimately derived as that of Beaver Dam, in 
Wisconsin, or the more profane-sounding Yuba Dam, of 
California. So, like the beaver, he built the Dam of the 
Amstel. This was partly in the nature of a prohibitory 
amendment, to shut off "the drink" of Zuyder— Zee? 
Likewise, by diking all along the Amstel, he set up a 
bank. Thus getting solid footing, he put his foot down 

226 



THE OLD BIBLE INN. 



227 



to hold his ground, and stay. Moreover, being of an 
investing turn, he resolved to put in all his pile here and 
that nothing should break that bank. Then he built 
more dikes and dams, and constructed bridges — three 
hundred of them, — and drove more piles, — " three hun- 
dred thousand more," or less. Some ninety islands 
were enclosed by canals which he had led around the 
plat in concentric circles, or strung across the lot, until 
his ground (and water) plan resembled a gigantic spider- 
web. And thus he literally founded a city. So much 
for Dutch perseverance ! Touching a tender spot in the 
heart of Holland, getting hold of a soft thing in land, 
instead of Lady- Macbeth-like weakly crying, "Out, 
damned spot," — he went ahead and dammed the spot in 
good earnest, and stayed it until it stayed in, permanently. 
Apparently there had never been the slightest foundation 
for the idea of a city here until this phlegmatic Dutchman 
went to work and put it in ! 

And his successors, too, by constraint of the great 
laws of heredity and necessity, were long kept on the 
drive to make a living, keep up the boom, and keep out 
the sea. They kept on building and driving piles, and 
now the foundation mud of Amsterdam has "millions in 
it" — so to speak. That is, speaking roughly and roundly. 

Whenever they wished to "keep a thing in mind" or a 
house on a lot, they remembered the old injunction, to 
"stick a pin there" — and they stuck one in so multitu- 
dinously that there is now no lack of "underpinning." 
They had heard that it was necessary to "drive their 
business" — which was to pile up the sea — or the sea 
"would drive them" out, so they made it a matter of 
public duty to work instead of vote for "protection." 
It was only factious, narrow-minded dry-goods dealers 



228 THE OLD BIBLE INN. 

who persisted in getting up "special drives" of their own. 

When they came to build the Stadhuys Palace, they 
set it up on no less than 13,659 piles. Some reader may 
suspect that this is piling it on pretty heavy, and it pains 
the Lounger exceedingly to be thus definitely statistical, 
but this is the exact net figure — no discount for cash. 
Like the Ark that was pitched within and without, and 
had a roof of double-pitch, besides, this old Palace, both 
above and below, is the exemplification of a stately pile. 
This is "on the square" — of the Great Dam, — and only 
a short distance from the Old Bible Hotel, which the 
Lounger will get back to, by way (rather devious, indeed,) 
of Warmoes Straat. But the convex curvature of the 
street itself is as nothing compared to the deflections 
from perpendicular uprightness of the buildings that line 
it. This is not at all peculiar either, to this one street 
or city. Almost any Dutch town whose family name is 
Dam can boast buildings as various and varied in verti- 
cals as the campaniles of Italy. This interferes sadly 
with rectitude of alignment. There is no consistency 
about them, either horizontally or vertically, and as to 
the latter, the "section lines" of any adjoining pair of 
fronts, having but one single point of contact, cross and 
assume the appearance of the letter X. 

At last we arrive at the Inn, an ancient structure, dating 
back to the period of the Reformation, when it was used 
for a printing-house, memorable especially for its early 
issues of the Reformed Bible. It displays a Bible for a 
sign and still preserves, as a valued relic, a copy issued 
from that old press of three centuries ago, the first Bible 
printed in Holland. The Lounger will scarce print any 
Commentaries upon the black-letter text of this venerable 
volume, for verily it was "all Dutch to him ! " 



THE OLD BIBLE INN. 



229 



Inside the little hotel everything is very comfortable, 
though on a small scale and contracted throughout; with 
such dark and devious halls, narrow corridors, and steep 
staircases as one might expect to find about an old 
printing-office. There lingers now, however, little else 
to remind one of that old black-art. The Inn boasts no 
parlor, and the little reading-room, fronting to the canal 
in the rear, serves for breakfast and smoking-room as 
well. Besides this, it is the "office" of the head-waiter 
to keep his accounts. And yet, it has its charm, both of 
quaintness inside, and of view from its windows, that 
open upon the canal, the Dam Rack, which is, in one 
sense, a leading thoroughfare of Amsterdam, being the 
widest of its canals, as, in fact, the course of the Amstel 
River itself. This view offers us constant temptation 
and enjoyment. The current of life and traffic moves 
lazily and slowly though methodically here, as does the 
outward current of the Amstel, or the sluggish tides 
setting in through the "Y" from the Zuyder Zee. 
Occasionally the little steamer that plies around the 
harbor and to the little neighboring islands, comes puffing 
in, and slowly discharges its freight or a few passengers 
on the landing almost opposite. 

And then the old buildings and warehouses that line 
the canal on the other side are a great source of interest 
and speculation with us. Some of them appear so 
evidently built for business and to own so little of it. 
Each tall and narrow, and with its antiquated gable to 
the street, but all of varied architecture, they agree in 
little but this, that every one projects that gable, up at 
the cone, into a little peaked dormer wherein is fixed the 
necessary pulley and tackle wherewith to lift merchandise 
from the canal below up into the storehouse. But the 



230 



THE OLD BIBLE INN. 



merchandise that should enter or depart from them never 
seemed to materialize while we were around. Possibly 
the traffic had departed to more favored quarters. 

Everywhere, indeed, in Amsterdam we were really 
delighted with the street views; they exhibited so much 
charming irregularity, and they revelled so fully in the 
elements of the picturesque, in varied form and color, 
that we revelled in them, in turn. Fantastic old gables, 
richly-red or mellowed facings, tiled roofings, turrets and 
towers of all forms and fashions; broken skylines above, 
shadowing trees and reflecting water below; these, with 
a "misty-moisty " atmosphere, combine to afford the 
materiel, and form the milieu with and in which the 
Dutch painter has demonstrated his ability to deal and 
work most effectively. 

By the way, the Lounger understands that the Dutch 
water-color artists begin construction of a picture on 
similar lines to those on which their picturesque Amster- 
dam was constructed; viz: — they first suffuse their base 
(the paper) with water ! After this they lay on and build 
up the color, and thereby get as soft a texture and as 
efficient a blending as their own moist atmosphere imparts. 

Lacking the rich dower of warm sunlight and magnifi- 
cent old marble palaces that Venice enjoys, these northern 
Venetians certainly possess, nevertheless, an exceedingly 
fine feeling for color, and sense of "values" in painting. 
Many of them carry their tastes and sense of values into 
an appreciation of teas, coffee, diamonds and other 
Asiatic produce just as well. And if you doubt that 
their painters do possess this appreciation of "values," 
just price some of their works ! You will be apt to 
conclude that the values appreciated just before you 
entered the studio. 



THE OLD BIBLE INN 23 1 

— One characteristic thing that the old Bible House 
afforded us, was some real old-fashioned Dutch dishes in 
its dining. It was a relief to get at last beyond the 
bounds of the French table-d'hote menu. Two things 
still linger in these Low Countries which are surely 
disappearing from Europe, — national costumes and cook- 
ery. Everything in dining and dress is fast becoming 
modeled uniformly after the Parisian fashion. 

It is true that in Switzerland they sometimes dress 
their waiter-girls in costume, as at the Schweitzerhof 
at Schaffhausen, but that is sure-enough "dress parade," 
with nothing more real about it than an opera-chorus of 
peasant girls in variegated bodices and striped stockings. 
The Lounger saw "William Tell" represented on the 
boards of the Grand Opera in Paris, but neither the 
scenery nor "figurantes" reminded him greatly of Altorf. 

— And also, one really gets little impression of Holland 
as Hollowland, the land that lies below the sea, by 
surveying the streets of Amsterdam. It somehow doesn't 
confirm the old Mitchell's Geography idea of boyhood ! 
But take one of those little steamers at the landing near 
the "Old Bible," and go out, through the "draw," and 
under the railroad-bridge, into the "Y," and toward the 
waste of waters, of which that is the doorway; out into 
the atmosphere of fog and mist which seems to surround 
and envelop the harbor. There, as your little steamer 
puffs along, the spectral ships, coasting schooners or great 
East-Indiamen suddenly appear, and as strangely disap- 
pear — while shoreward, in the unremote distance, the 
massive buildings of the low-lying city, with its towers 
and spires, loom vaguely above the waste, like the first 
uprising of island reef and palm above the horizon of a 
world submerged. 



THE FLEUR D'OR. 



"Mr. Hatterscheidt ! " — said Mr. Lincoln, soon 
after his first inauguration, to a Leavenworth applicant 
for a consulship abroad — "Mr. Hatterscheidt, I under- 
stand you want to go and see your Aunt Werp ! Well, 
that's out of the question, but you're a good boy, and I 
can send you to milk your Ma's Cow ! " So Mr. H. 
took a fair " Hobson's choice" — and went, a political 
dairyman, to Moscow. 

So runs the story: 

"I do not vouch for the truth you see, 
I tell the tale as 'twas told to me." 

The Lounger, however, was not to be diverted from 
his visit to Antwerp — and thereby had the diversion of 
meeting a lady not unconnected therewith, the buxom 
hostess of the Fleur D'Or, the widow Collin. 

It happened thus. — We had come down from Rotter- 
dam, and arriving at the station, had taken a cab to the 
first hotel on the list "starred" by Baedeker. Approaching 
the Hotel St. Antoine through the crowded streets, we 
were astonished with the unwonted spectacle of the hotel 
porticr actually waving away the new arrival, instead 
of extending the usual welcoming greeting ! Seeking 
then the next "star of the first magnitude," — Hotel de 
l'Europe, — its major-domo appeared at our carriage 
door, and politely regretted that they, also, were "too 
full" — not for "utterance," but for the reception — of 

232 



THE FLEUR D'OR. 



233 



guests. This was something most unusual, abroad. The 
explanation afforded was that the town was full, as we 
could see for ourselves. What was the cause? Was 
"the circus in town" — or was this "a Fourth of July" 
celebration, albeit Sunday and the 14th of August? The 
latter guess wasn't so far out of the way, after all. This 
was a gala day, a "fete" day for Antwerp. It was their 
annual civic holiday, of which, it appears, each Flemish 
town is apt to have its distinct, specific own. Just what 
historic, memorial significance this day was to Antwerp, 
we failed to learn, but we did comprehend that it was 
high time for us to be securing quarters somewhere, before 
the day grew older and the press heavier. x\ppealing, 
therefore, to know our best chance for a room, we were 
told that probably the Fleur D'Or, a little hotel of the 
second-class, in the Rue des Moines, opposite the Cathe- 
dral, might be the likeliest. Though the last on Baedeker's 
list, among the "unpretending," we sought it as speedily 
as possible. 

Summoned by our driver, the good landlady met us on 
the curbstone, and then and there, with her arms akimbo, 
held a parley and negotiation with the Lounger; — if, 
indeed, that could be called a negotiation which simply 
dictated terms of surrender unto him. It was a dialogue 
carried on between good Flemish and bad tourist-French, 
and in every way the Lounger was at sore disadvantage. 

Had she a room ? Yes — one, and just one ! A good 
large front room, on the first floor, but — 

But what ? — The price, Monsieur, is twenty francs ! 
Twenty francs, for inferior lodging, when the best rooms 
in the best hotels are usually but five to eight ! ! " Out, 
Monsieur, vingt francs Juste.'" "Mais, Madame c'est 
ires cher, c' est trap ckerJ" " Oui, Monsieur, c'est tres 



234 



THE FLEUR D'OR. 



cher, mais, — que voulez-vous ?" — She owned that it was 
out of all reason, but, il que voulez-vous" "what was the 
Lounger going to do about it ? " The discussion waxed 
warm. She condescended to explain that she could put 
in any number of "cots" and "shake-downs" in that 
room, and thereby realize easily twenty, perhaps even 
thirty francs thereby, for the town was "toute pleine." 
To the Lounger's remonstrance that the price was exorb- 
itant, she would reply with the non sequitur — " Out, 
Monsieur / Mais, que voulez vous," — and as she nodded 
her head when she said it, the Lounger gave in, and she 
took us in. 

Then, later in the day, she found that she had over- 
reached herself, after all, for the town was indeed il toute 
pleine" and she had applicants by the score, while her 
great chambre was gone ! "Monsieur, twenty francs is a 
great price to pay for a room!" "Truly, Madame 
Collin, it is a fearful price, as I told you before, mais — 
que voulez-vous I One must sleep somewhere ! " "Yes, 
Monsieur, but I have another room, not so large, but 
very comfortable, and it is a front room, too. Monsieur 
can have that for ten francs instead, and then I can 
accommodate several officers in the large chamber." 
Finding that the smaller room was as represented, we 
obligingly made the exchange. 

But in the interval, we had sallied out of the crowded 
tavern into the crowded streets of Antwerp. Everywhere 
noise and jollity prevailed. A military band was playing 
all day long in the Place Verte hard by. More bands of 
music pervaded and paraded the streets, and everybody 
was tooting or singing. The city populace were out in 
full force, and the people were "in from the country," — 
all in their holiday clothes and preternaturally festive. 



THE FLEUR D'OR. 



235 



Whenever the miltary companies were not marching, the 
privates were imbibing beer and the officers were drinking 
wine; and yet, so far, there was little intoxication or 
disturbance, and at the worst, the intolerable "fireworks" 
nuisance was happily absent. On the "Place, " in front 
of the cafes, the eating and drinking groups, with their 
tables, usurped the sidewalk and even projected themselves 
into the street. Everywhere the Belgian tri-color — black, 
red and yellow — was flung out from windows and draped 
across the street, and in flag and streamer, floated gayly 
from the top of the grand old tower of Notre Dame, 
which, ever and anon, with its great bells or ringing 
chimes, adds an old-time peal or merry jingle to the 
general clangor. 

It was somewhat interesting to watch these public 
festivities, and to note, even here among a foreign people, 
the different degrees and manner of enjoyment manifested 
by differing types and individuals. But the noisy dem- 
onstrations became rather tiresome at length to a Lounger 
whose ear never was thoroughly attuned to all the esthetic 
melodiousness which exists in noise of the noisiest kind, 
and who has even been rash enough to question, at times, 
the signal appropriateness of firing off guns on Christmas 
morning ! So, at length, he confined his walks to the 
more secluded streets, and spent some pleasant hours in 
the shadowed peace of the Art Museum and the great 
Cathedral. 

Here, in the home of Rubens and of Vandyke, one 
would naturally expect their best productions to predom- 
inate, and this much may be said for that renowned 
Flemish master, the first named, that here are to be 
found those of his pictures which evince some quality of 
nobleness, some depth of religious feeling, some attributes 



236 THE FLEUR D'OR. 

of true greatness m conception and treatment of worthy 
subjects. After long wearying, in many picture galleries 
around Europe, of his florid and fleshly Venuses, and 
aching over his acres of allegoric inanities in the "long 
gallery" of the Louvre, it is a great relief to come at 
last upon something that seems to justify in some measure 
his repute as a great painter. As the curtain rolls down 
in front of his "Descent from the Cross," hiding it from 
view, we feel for the first time, a real regret in losing 
sight of one of his creations. Here too, in Antwerp, are 
other works of the artist, almost as noble; as well as 
worthy examples of Vandyke, in whom the Lounger had 
long taken more delight. 

Perchance it had been the sight of so much flag that 
sent the Lounger, later in the afternoon, down to the 
wharves of Antwerp. Here, the "lazy Scheldt" rocked 
upon its lazily-heaving tide full many a stately craft from 
other lands, a very forest of masts and smoke-stacks, 
adorned with strips of bunting, emblems of nationality, 
conspicuous among which fluttered the Union Jack of 
Old England ! At last, out toward the middle of the 
stream, the Lounger discovered a single lone specimen 
of the Stars and Stripes. It covered, on closer inspec- 
tion, more petroleum, perhaps, than patriotism, — and 
thereby represented Monopoly quite as well as the Nation; 
— but it was the first American flag that the Lounger had 
viewed for many a long day, and he was willing to take 
it on trust, even if it was an Oil Trust, — and to sing, 
" Forever float that ' Standard ' sheet." 

"How shall we sing the songs of our country in a 
strange land," when the only two commercial represen- 
tatives you meet abroad are a barrel of coal oil and 



THE FLEUR D'OR. 



237 



a Singer sewing-machine? Never mind, we will be 

patriotic, all the same ! 

"Though we may forget the Singer, 
We will not forget the song." 

Returning from the quay and its net-work of curved 
streets, the Lounger purposely took the wrong turning, 
losing his way, and abandoning himself to every passing 
whim, being sure to encounter, at every step, some 
quaint and curious building, down here in the old quarter 
whose suburb had haply survived all the perils of two 
great sieges, and the fiery ravages of the memorable 
"Spanish Fury." Grim and gaunt-looking indeed, are 
these old warehouses, with their stone casements, small, 
square windows and gable ends to the street, rising with 
pyramidal steps to a peak far overhead ! And when one 
reaches the "Grand Place," here are more which add a 
picturesque mediaeval beauty to quaintness and grimness; 
the ancient Guild Houses with varied architecture, in the 
vicinity of the extraordinary old Hotel de Ville, and one 
with beautiful symmetric facade and a peak piercing 
skyward, which they tell you is of the fifteenth century, 
and name as the Palace of Emperor Charles the Fifth. 

But, go where'er he will among these crooked streets 
and strange surroundings, the Lounger may never quite 
lose himself, — for everywhere a shining land-mark, away 
above the roof-tops and pinnacles of buildings, soars 
heavenward the glorious tower of Antwerp Cathedral ! 
And were it even lost to sight, you are inevitably and 
pleasantly reminded of its vicinity, for ever and anon, it 
sends forth its happy chime, and at longer intervals, one 
of its great bells peals out in deep bass, magnificently 
sonorous, while every passing fifteen minutes is measured 
off by three rhythmic cadences, repeated for each quarter: 
Ding— Dong— Bell ! 



238 THE FLEUR D'OR. 

As we near the entrance to Rue des Moines (the 
"Street of the Monks") and our inn of the "Golden 
Flower," we are tempted by a little by-street that curves 
to the rear, and which was probably the wheat market 
in ancient days, for it still bears the cognomen of " Vieux 
Marche au Ble." Here is haply a little eddy in the 
rushing, brawling stream of "fete-day" festivity, and we 
gratefully seek its quiet. Here the clamor is hushed, and 
something like a Sabbath stillness seems to prevail. 
Neither is this detracted from greatly, after all, by our 
coming upon a little group of "children of the quarter," 
who have taken possession of a portion of the narrow 
street, and are playing some childish game which is new 
to us, but may be centuries old in Europe. They have 
set some lighted candles upon the ground before them, 
for a center, and then, joining hands, are circling around, 
dancing and chanting merrily. They are only foreign 
"street gamins," indeed, but their evident innocent 
enjoyment, at this twilight hour, was the "one touch of 
nature" which somehow reminded " Queen Consort" of 
one little boy of like tender years, some thousands of 
miles away, across the broad Atlantic ! 

Afterward, we sat, in the gloaming, at the window of 
our chamber in the Fleur D'Or, and looked across at the 
little booths which cluster against the outer wall of the 
old Cathedral, for all the world stuck thereon like mud- 
wasps' nests. And the crowds yet thronged past, in the 
street below, still keeping up their holiday. The indica- 
tions were that some, not satisfied with a day of it, were 
bent on "making a night of it" also! As dusk settled 
down upon the streets of old Antwerp, the pace of their 
fun grew faster and more furious. Their spirits were 
evidently rising as the wine and beer and spirits went 



THE FLEVR D'OK. 



239 



down. Longfellow tells us in sweetly measured numbers, 
of what, betwixt sleeping and waking, he haply heard and 
haply dreamed, of the Old Belfry of Bruges: 

"As tie lay 
One evening at the Fleur de Ble." 

But the Lounger will scarce attempt to put into rhyme 
what went on that night around the Fleur D'Or of 
Antwerp ! It was altogether too festive for poetry, or 
for sleep to tired eyelids. Probably on other occasions 
this little Flemish tavern was orderly enough, but to-night 
it was "just howling," inside and out! The racket was 
kept up on the streets till three in the morning, while 
almost up to that late hour, the officers who had taken 
the great "chambre" just across the corridor from ours 
would come trooping up, drunk and noisy. At intervals 
too, far into the night, there would come an awful 
thundering at the street door, as clamorous as that which, 
together with guilty consciences, once terrified Thane 
and Thaness Macbeth; — and other parties would imper- 
atively demand shelter for the night, not to be denied 
until Madame herself descended to assure them that her 
inn was indeed " toute pleine." 

And ever and anon the waning hours, with our waning 
chance for slumber, would be tolled off to us by the 
great clock in the Cathedral tower hard by, — at times by 
great, deep-toned Carolus himself. And constantly, the 
quarters would be intermitted to us by the cadence of 
the lesser bells; — Ding — Dong — -Bell ! Ding — Dong — 
Bell! 



LAST INNINGS. 



Straight as the flight of an arrow or an eagle launched 
from the crags of Holyhead Mountain, our little steamer 
goes skimming the light billows of the Irish Sea, never 
turning or doubling in her course, though always on the 
way to Dublin. 

Returning to Liverpool after some months of wandering 
about Europe, we had left there, at the Cunard office, 
our baggage and other plunder of the campaign, to be 
put on board the steamer sailing a few days later, ami 
had set out upon a little run into Wales and Ireland, to 
meet the vessel when she should touch at Queenstown. 
By Chester and the "Sands of Dee;" by the bold Welsh 
coast, with its picturesque old towers and ruins: by the 
vale of Llanberis and the foot of Snowdon; by historic 
Carnaervon Castle, and the Victoria Tubular Bridge, 
over the Straits of Menai; — these were pleasant stages 
which had brought us to the marshy islet of Anglesea, 
and to barren, rocky Holyhead ! 

Arrived at Dublin, by way of the little railroad from 
Kingston, we find quarters at "The Gresham." Like 
the traditional "fine old Irish gentleman," this hostelry 
may be characterized as highly respectable, but, com- 
pared with its English congeners, somewhat free and easy 
in its ways and manner of keeping. We cannot say that 
we liked it any the less therefor, finding in it, indeed, 
some suggestion of American hotels long left behind, but 

24U 



LAHT INNIX',- 



241 



soon to be regained. And one thing it served at its 
table, which in turn served as a suggestion of home — 
good soft bread. We were reminded that this was a 
blessing which had "brightened as it took its flight," 
coincident with our taking a Cunard steamer at New 
Vurk. Like other crude Americans "fresh" to European 
ways, we had vainly hankered after salted butter and 
fresh bread, but had perforce been conditioned into 
lething like the converse. It had been a hard trial 
for our teeth; but like other hard but wholesome experi- 
ences of life, we had found it not wholly "stale, flat and 
unprofitable." 

The Gresham is in U; j ickville Street — and Sack- 

ville Street with Phoenix Park make the pride of Dublin. 
lor its three or four blocks of length, with its avenue-like 
spaciousness, its imposing edifices and monuments, it 
bears the air of considering itself very fine indeed. 

In the early morn, when the "dew was on the gowans 

lying," — if haply there were any gowans thereabout, — 

we drove out to Phoenix Park, which one of Lever's (or 

was it Thackeray's) characters used to boast as "the 

foinest in the Three Kingdoms, begorra ! " Now, it is 

forever unhappily associated with the assassination of 

Lord Frederick Cavendish. Truth to tell, we saw less 

that was extraordinary in these public pleasure grounds 

than in the private houses lining the street leading thereto. 

Behind each semi-circular clear glass of their front-door 

transoms, shone resplendent a "plaster-of-Paris image," 

the statuette of some animal — usually a horse or a dog ! 

The esthetic fancy reminded one of Coleridge's pious 

application: 

'•He prayeth well who loveth well. 
Both man and bird and be:. 

17 



24 2 LAST INNINGS. 

Traversing the southern half of Ireland diagonally 
from Dublin to the mountains of Kerry, near the south- 
west coast, the Lounger derived an impression which, 
though cursory indeed, is probably not wholly fallacious, 
that entirely too much is demanded from the Island ! 
However fertile naturally much of the soil may have 
been, and favored with an exceptionally equable distri- 
bution of moisture, it is yet too evidently a limited country 
agriculturally, and one wholly inadequate to support a 
large population. There has to be subtracted a vast 
deal of waste, irreclaimed or irreclaimable land, and far 
too much of bog, and barren hill, and mountain. For 
the rest, there is a painful lack of careful, generous 
tillage, thrift and improvement. With all its perennial 
verdure, it is by far too much given over to "blossomed 
furze unprofitably gay. " Something will have to be given 
back to the soil if it shall continue to be drawn upon 
perpetually for rent money and potatoes and "poteen." 
It follows, therefore, "as the night the day," — or 
Farmers' Alliances a condition of fifteen cent corn, — 
that there is bound to be trouble in Ireland until there 
shall be a considerable reduction in number, either of the 
landlords to be supported, or of the tenants who have to 
support both the landlords and themselves from an 
insufficient soil, insufficiently reclaimed and improved. 

The contrast with its sister island in appearance is 
sorely to the disadvantage of Ireland, yet it must be 
remembered that England owes a great deal to recla- 
mation and improvement. The lushest and greenest of 
grasses now carpet meadows of emerald, once, in the days 
of the Heptarchy, given over to marshy fen and mucky 
morass. Drainage, underdrainage and persistent high 
cultivation, — this is the magic that has transformed 
England from a waste into a garden. 



LAST INNINGS. 



H3 



Yet surely one of Nature's most delightful gardens, set 
in the most picturesque surrounding that a waste can 
exhibit, is to be found among the mountains and lakes of 
Killarney ! It will not do for the Lounger, at this late 
hour when he should be covering up the embers of 
reminiscence, to let loose upon them, instead, the breath 
of enthusiasm, for they might then chance to glow too 
brightly for him to escape from their fascination. Far 
less will it answer for him to attempt prose description of 
scenes which Ireland's poet, Thomas Moore, long since 
embalmed in verse. 

It was in an Irish jaunting-car, the national vehicle, 
that the Lounger pair set out gaily in the morning from 
the Railway Inn, at Killarney village, to "do" what 
might fairly be "done" of all these wonders within the 
compass of an autumn day, — one of those days which, in 
Green Erin, begin with fairly-fair weather, progress into 
poetic mistiness, and end at last in prosaic "drizzle- 
drozzle." The fair and misty weather carried us the 
round of the Lakes, and the drizzle-drozzle found us 
toiling up the long stretch of the Purple Mountain 
beyond, from whose acclivity we could look across to the 
reeking MacGillicuddv's Reeks, and down into the Gap 
of Dunloe. Two forlorn travelers, lacking umbrellas 
and a prophetic sense of Irish weather, — one in each 
pocket of that pair of saddle-bags which is called an 
Irish jaunting-car, — found themselves perfectly willing, 
at length, to abandon that mountain, whose chilling mists 
had pretty thoroughly saturated them. Coasting down 
then between lake and mountain, the driver brought up 
at a point in the road opposite the grounds of Hon. Mr. 
Herbert, M. P., and suggested to the unhappy tourists 
that of course they wished to alight here and view the 



244 



LAST INNINGS. 



Tore Cascade ! Truth to tell, they would have been 
willing to forego any further sight-seeing — but the tourist 
conscience cried that here was one more duty to Nature 
unfulfilled; so they complied, and were directed to a path 
up the side of Tore Mountain, through its leafy, dripping 
woods. 

Arrived in front of the Cascade, they agreed that, like 
many other conventional things to be "done" in Europe, 
it hardly "came up to the bills," — but congratulated 
themselves that, at all events, this was actually the very 
last one ! Incidentally some things might be noted by 
the wayside between this and the steamer, but the turning 
point had been reached. Henceforth the pony's head 
would be turned toward Queenstown, and their steps 
toward Home ! 

Coming down again to the road and their equipage, 
and lo ! two figures rose up before them, — two gaunt, 
weird figures, draped in long red cloaks and looming in 
the mist! "So withered and so wild in their attire," 
it would be no great wonder indeed, if to the imagination 
of Queen Consort they assumed the significance of Two 
Fates standing in the way between her and a happy 
home, soon to be sought across the sea. So interposed 
to Macbeth and Banquo, hasting home, fired with success, 
the Three Weird Sisters on the blasted heath ! These 
sisters were but two indeed, two ragged crones, redolent 
of whiskey — but they were evidently in the mood to 
predict either good or ill, according as themselves should 
be sped. And though the road was a fairly good highway, 
they were prepared to "blast it" fast enough, if occasion 
should serve. As to the "witches' brew" — but let us 
not anticipate ! 

Now, sooth to say, there be happily one element lack- 



LAST INNINGS. 



2 45 



ing in the mental constitution of the Lady whom the 
Lounger knows as Queen Consort. She believes in no 
foolish superstitions ! Those idle, silly fancies of the 
race, coming out from 

•• Desolate wind-swept space, 
From Twilight land, from No-Man's Land,"— 

these trouble not her a whit ! She wears opals in 
preference to any other jewelry. To her, it be perfectly 
indifferent over which shoulder the new moon doth first 
appear, and whether black cat, or rabbit haply cross her 
path. Of all things she thoroughly enjoys a comfortable 
dinner, when just a round "baker's-dozen" sit down 
thereto. And when she goes on a journey, she always 
sets out on Friday, wind and weather and providence 
permitting ! 

But somehow she seemed a trifle uneasy, and anxious 
to get rid of those beldams. And so was the Lounger, 
who favored, not buying them off, but driving off from 
them, "instanter. " As we resumed our seats in the car, 
they attacked the Lady with the most flattering allusions 
and adjurations to the brightness of her eyes, and the 
goodness of her heart, which would impel her to induce 
"his honor" to take a drink of milk from the jug they 
produced. Oh yes! do try some of the milk and encourage 
the poor old women ! No ! the Lounger didn't care for 
milk, neither did milk "like" him. Beside — he didn't 
know the cows ! Oh, the co'os are all roight yer honor, 
an' shure they're goats ! Well ! Queen Consort might 
"try" some, and welcome, but it was just that kind of a 
cold day when the milk would "get left" with him ! No, 
the lady didn't seem to favor the beverage either, but it 
was just a real shame for the Lounger not to buy some, 
and help those kind old ladies ! 



246 



LAST INNINGS. 



Just then, one of them had gone to a crevice in the 
stone wall hard by — and produced therefrom a suspicious- 
looking bottle. Well, then, his honor would shurely thry 
a glass of Mountain-Dew. It was the raal ould Oirish 
stuff, yez know, and had niver seen a gauger at all, at all ! 
It would war-rm up his har-rt this cowld day. The poteen 
would put new loife in him ! Oh yes ! said the Lady, do 
try some of their mountain-dew ! You do need it after 
the ride on the cold mountain ! — Why, Queen Consort ! 
this is really astounding ! A representative of a Prohibi- 
tion State abroad, to be asked to forego his principles, 
just for the sake of these old crones, and indulge in 
mountain-dew, which is but another name for Irish whisky 
of the smokiest and most illicit kind, for it is plainly 
illicit whisky they are peddling, and of the most contra- 
band variety. Never, no never ! The driver corroborated 
this impression, and added that if the Honorable Mr. 
Herbert knew what they do be selling, they would be in 
Killarney jail insoide of foive hours. Oh ! that would 
be a shame, you know, said the Lady, and really you do 
need it as a medicine, this cold day ! Would she try 
some of the medicine herself? No, she couldn't think 
of such a thing — but the poor creatures must be helped 
some way ! 

Just here a compromise suggested itself to the brain of 
the Lounger. Our driver had never been in a Prohibition 
State or in a state of prohibition, though unusually 
temperate. He had kindly given over his frieze top-coat 
for the protection of the Lady. He was the one who 
needed refreshment, and who took it finally, in a judicious 
mixture of the milk and mountain-dew; — the chill of the 
one duly qualifying the fire of the other. And the 
Lounger's shilling went to the "kind old ladies," who 



LAST INNINGS. 



247 



thereupon set up and sent up a loud chorus of blessings 
upon him and his lady, and their children to the remotest 
generation. Bliss your swate face, lady — and may the 
blissed Vargin give you a safe passage across the Ocean, 
and take you safe back home to the dear childher in 
Ameriky ! All the Saints in the Calendar were invoked 
to add force to this kindly wish. As the pony trotted off 
toward Killarney, until a turn in the road hid them from 
sight, we could still see and hear them, from the middle 
of the highway imploring these kindly blessings upon 
our devoted heads. 

And, just think now, that if you hadn't bought their 
"mountain-dew," and given them the shilling, it would 
be just the other thing they would be sending after us — 
and we, in two days more, to be out on the wild 
Atlantic ! — said Queen Consort. Oh, but she was deep, 
— and not the least bit in the world superstitious ! 

*lg *lf j|* gfe jfo jig mtm «L> A 

Next evening found us at Queenstown, and once more 
stopping at a "Queen's Hotel," the last of our Inns, 
and the very last of that series which is so numerous in 
the United Kingdoms as to suggest the popularity of 
some of those "Queens of England," whose list — and 
wardrobes — Agnes Strickland hath inventoried. 

The next morning the Lounger dropped into the Cunard 
office, and inquired for any news of the steamer, and of 
the state of the weather seaward. For the first, the boat 
would be standing into the roadstead in an hour or two; 
and there was a cable from the New York Herald 
Weather-Bureau that a storm wave was sweeping across 
the Atlantic ! But you never find the New York Herald 
reliable? — queried the Lounger. Well, their weather 
predictions are generally fairly verified, — was answered, 



2 4 8 



LAST INNINGS. 



for the Lounger's satisfaction. And this was to be all 
he was to receive from the shilling that the Lady had 
made him invest ! 

Two hours later, and as they looked out into the 
harbor, there was the Cunarder quietly at anchor, waiting 
for the Lounger and the last London mail; and just 
before they got aboard the little tender that took them off, 
he wrote, in the register of the Queen's, which previous 
travelers had converted into something of a memorial 
album, these lines of Good-Bye: — 

Old World ! we leave you now with some regret ; 

Glad have we been, amid your scenes to roam; 
We own their charms ;— but fairer, dearer yet, 

Are the bright skies and spreading vales of Home ! 



THE CITY OF BY-GONE YEARS. 



There is no superstition so wide-spread in Europe as that of a sunken 
city which has disappeared below the surface of a sea or a lake at some 
unknown period in the past. When the waters are rough, the tips of the 
spires of its churches may be seen in the trough of the waves ; on calm 
days one hears the distant sound of their bells, drowned by the ocean. 
The name of this city in Germany is given as Vineta, and it lies in the 
vicinity of the island of Rugen. E.Werner has a novel entitled ' ' Vineta," 
which is based on this superstition. In Brittany this sunken city is called 
Is, and various places along the coast are pointed out as its site. Ernest 
Renan has made use of the old legend in his " Souvenirs," as follows : 
" It seems to me that I have in my own heart a town of Is, which still has 
its obstinate bells that ring for the sacred offices and call for men who 
hear no more." —American Notes and Queries. 

There is an old, old legend 

That beareth a charm to me; — 
A fanciful tale that lingers 

By the shores of the German Sea. 



It tells of a sunken city 

Whose towers the waters lave — 
The grandeur of by-gone ages 

Now resting beneath the wave. 

Down many a hundred fathom 
It slumbers quiet and long, 

With all its wonders and treasures;- 
A city of story and song ! 

249 



250 



THE CITY OF BY-GONE YEARS. 

Its every marvellous palace 

The water-gods hold in fee; 
Its halls are the homes of the mermaids, 

Its pavement the floor of the sea ! 

Oh ne'er to its topmost turret 
Was deepest plummet sent; — 

Nor has foot of the boldest diver 
Trod its loftiest battlement ! 

But sometimes at eve, in autumn, 
When the sun sinks slowly down, 

Darting the shafts of his splendor 
On the grave of the buried town, — 

When, over the mirror of waters 
Burnished with crimson and gold, 

Float the streamers of cloudland glory 
By the legions of Sunset unroll'd — 

Then the voices of restless Ocean, 
Sounding from year to year — 

Are still'd with the tumult that bears them 
— And a music falls on the ear ! 

The bells of unseen steeples 

Swing magically to and fro, 
Ringing tones of silvery sweetness 

Up from the depths below. 



THE CITY OF BY-GONE YEARS. 251 

And then, to enchanted senses, 

Through a golden mist, uprears 
A pageant of marvellous beauty — 

The City of By-Gone Years ! 

Pinnacle, dome and belfry, 

Palace and knightly hall, 
Fortress with rampart and bastion 

And pennon on castle wall — 

The myriad roofs of its mansions, 

Street, column and portal proud — 
Float upward, above the sunset 

And hang in the sunset cloud ! 

Then — wonderful picture of beauty ! 

Roof, rampart, tower and spire, 
With more than their old-time splendor, 

Glow bright in the sunset's fire ! 

Awhile burns the magical city 

By the parting sunbeams kissed, 
With flushes of rose and of crimson, 

Of ruby and amethyst ! 

But e'en as we gaze — lo ! it fadeth — 

Fadeth the purple and gold, 
Swift changing to evening shadows ! — 

And the night comes, dark and cold ! 
****** 



252 THE CITY OF BY-GONE YEARS. 

And thus in the Autumn of Lifetime — 
By the shore where its sunsets glow, 

Through the crystalline waves of Remembrance, 
Rise the visions of Long Ago ! 

'Tis the one, of all teeming fancies, 

That fondliest reappears, 
Which Time had buried the deepest 

In the grave of our long-lost years. 

And sweetest of mortal music, 

With tone that clearest swells — 
The chimes of our happy childhood, 

Rung upwards by Memory's bells ! 

How oft to enchanted senses 

Through the golden mist, uprears 

That pageant of marvellous beauty, 
The city of by-gone years ! 

With more than its youthful glamour, 

With splendors grown manifold, 
Shine its roofs and its spires, in the glory 

Of fancy's sunset gold ! 

The steps of its rocky castle, 

The stones of its rugged street, 
That wearied each untrained muscle, 

And wounded our youthful feet, 



THE CITY OF BY-GONE YEARS. 253 

Now shine in the magic radiance 

With glisten of precious stone, 
In semblance of marble and jasper, 

Of agate and chalcedone ! 

Forgotten youth's toil and sorrow, 

Banished its care and pain; 
While, brightened with ten-fold luster, 

Its triumphs and joys remain. 

But soon, like the somber nightfall, 

Chill age upon manhood crowds, 
And memory's Fata Morgana 

Shall fade, like the sunset clouds ! 
* * * * * 

Where then, is the City Eternal, 

"By saint and by prophet foretold," 
Shining aye, with a glory supernal 

Transcending the ruby and gold ? 

No vision of human fancy, 

No city of earth or of air, 
May hint but the faintest promise 

Of marvels the future shall bear ! 

Each splendor of cloudland shining, 

Each pearl, and each tinted shell, 
Prefigures an infinite beauty 

And glory ineffable ! 



254 



THE CITY OF BY-GONE YEARS. 

How bright the beatified mansions, 

Where "the pure in heart" take their abode 

In that radiant City Celestial, 

"Whose builder and maker is God ! " 

What language of men or of angels 
Shall tell what its glories may be, 

Whose domes arch the Universe endless — 
Whose foundations — Eternity ! 

"Where is neither beginning nor ending" 
Lo ! the spire of its Temple uprears, 
Whose chimes, rung at dawn of Creation, 
Commingled the Music of Spheres ! 

That we, its glad belfry and pprtal, 

With "the eye of the spirit," may see; — 

May dwell in The City Immortal — 
God grant it to you and to me ! 



IN MIDSUMMER MOOD. 



Those things do best please me 
That befal preposterously. 



-Mids u m m er- Nigh t ' s Dream . 



HOW JOAQUIN WALKED OUT. 



He was a brick: so said they all, — 

And hefty as a brick let fall, 

Down dropping through the summer sky 

Upon the head of passer-by, 

Down dropping through the filmy air, 

On brick-top head of passen-jare. 

I loved a maid of the wild Tagf asters, — 
Bronze-hued, brown-eyed, with lips like wine, 
With a soul tip-toed and stretching higher, 
(Reaching up to my soul's desire, 
Fiercely fond and full of fire) — 
And a flat-foot fit for a number-nine. 

Let friends be false — let friends be true, 

Let wine be old — let love be new, 

Let fields be green — let fields be bare, • 

And sun-shafts shoot through shimmering air,- 

With bright skies arching and bending over, 

Trill of tree-frog and lay of lover, 

The hum of bees and sweet scent of clover, — 

Home, friends and all, by the white sea-wall, 

To win new loves, or to serve new masters, 

I left the Sierras and wild Tagfasters ! 



256 



MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 



The height — and the heat — of midsummer is here! 
"The Dog- Star rages." So doth also "ye managing 
editor," because, forsooth, the Lounger has lately chosen 
to lounge in cool and shady coverts rather than in "the 
keen sunlight of publicity " — the columns of the Journal. 
"Why doth the heathen rage and imagine a vain thing?" 
Undoubtedly the Journal readers would prefer to grant 
the Lounger a summer vacation, once for all, to having 
him parade in these columns in coatless and cravatless 
mental dishabille of hot weather. 

Just why the Dog-Star should rage and par consequence 
the world grow mad, either in July or August, the 
Lounger has never been able to determine. To him, it 
has appeared that Sol rather than Sirius was accountable 
for this torrid heat that fries men's brains and coagulates 
their wits. Sirius-ly, the Lounger takes no stock in this 
Dog-Star theory! The hapless victims of lunacy (mental 
moonshine — derivation, Luna — See?) are prone to 
imagine themselves the only sane, and all the rest of 
mankind demented. Possibly that is the matter with the 
Lounger now, — but he does appear to strike a good 
many of late, afflicted with midsummer madness. Either 
several people in the world of literature are off their 
balance, or else the Lounger is slightly off — his base." 
"It is a mad world, my masters ! " 

First, here comes Estes & Lauriat, book publishers — 

18 257 



258 MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 

with an advertisement in the "Atlantic." "Do you 
always know just what to do ? If not, let us recom- 
mend Mrs. Florence Howe Hall's 'Social Customs,' 
(price $2.00) and its baby relative, 'The Correct Thing/ 
(price 75 cents); for, with both these books, one can 
make no mistakes in life, as every possible question may 
be answered from their combined wisdom." This is 
midsummer-madness with a vengeance ! It is as astound- 
ing as the declaration of the escaped poor-house "luny" 
who assures you he is King Solomon, on his way to 
return the visit of the Queen of Sheba, and anxious to 
sell you one of his cast-off crowns of gold for two-bits, 
towards paying his railway fare ! Verily E. & L. are as 
luny as a loon; as mad as a March hare; as crazy as a — 
Cimex lectularius ! 

"Do you always know just what to do ? " Just reverse 
that, please, and put it— Do you ever know just what to 
do ? The Lounger has imagined sometimes that he did, 
but generally discovered his error before long, when too 
late! As a rule, instead of there being just "a right 
way and a wrong way " to choose from, — which is easy 
enough,— it has appeared to him a very perplexing ques- 
tion as to the better of two right ways, or the lesser of 
two or more evils presented. And then, whichever 
course he did decide upon usually led him to regret that 
he hadn't taken another! 

Fortified with these two books — aggregating a cost of 
only $2.75 — "one can make no mistake in life, as every 
possible question may be answered from their combined 
wisdom." Indeed, this is very tempting — infallibility 
for $2.75 ! And yet, Messrs. E. & L., we will not invest ! 
Unlike Mr. Blaine and Henry Clay, the Lounger would 
rather be President sometimes than to be always right. 



MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 



259 



The Lounger's next candidate for a Midsummer 
Asylum is a Reverend Somebody, who furnished a paper 
for the recent Chautauqua Assembly of Missouri. By 
the way — is there any other association than that of sound 
between "chalk-talks" and "Chautauquas?" Possibly 
only this — that both alike press close up on either hand, 
to the frozen summit of intellectuality. 

The theme of the Reverend's paper was the "Women 
of Shakespeare," and he had undoubtedly made up his 
mind to strike it at once, like a cyclone, tearing the whole 
subject up by the roots and bearing it aloft on the wings 
of the tempest — and of a vivid imagination. He "struck 
twelve the first time," and very promptly! "My theme 
is the Women of Shakespeare. 'Women' and 'Shake- 
speare' are the two best words in the English language ! " 
Well ! — The Lounger will prudently file no exception to 
the first, in this connection, but in all common sense — 
and in all reverence, as well — what becomes of such 
words as God, life, immortality, father, brother, home, 
friend, faith, love, truth, virtue, justice, honor, and a 
hundred others that should rise from heart to lip, ages 
before any personal name, however great, should be 
spoken or recalled ! This is the veriest midsummer- 
madness of Shakespeariolatry that the reverend gentle- 
man is infected with — and his only excuse may be that 
other writers who should know better have taken on 
this silly habit and fashion of loose, exaggerated speech 
whenever the name of Shakespeare is mentioned. Even 
so great a man as Emerson himself once fell into it, and 
wrote some such nonsense. 

Our Chautauqua hyperbolist then went on to enunciate 
his proper pet theory — which was that while the men of 
Shakespeare were often quite faulty in conception, the 



260 MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 

women of the dramatist were always unique and perfect 
in idealization — with the possible exception of Ophelia — 
who, in point of fact, went about as crazy as the reverend 
gentleman himself. On the other hand, some other 
Shakespearean crank would promulgate that the women 
are "as flat as dishwater," while his men are admirable 
characterizations throughout ! This is the amusing yet 
saving point of average Shakespearean criticism; — the 
commentators, like Kilkenny cats, devour each other. 
Each admires, and each discards; — what is the poison of 
one is the meat of another, until, like the good Mussul- 
man's swine — 

" Quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten." 
******** 

There was a man of the name of Stevenson who startled 
the world not long ago, with his rocket-like ascent 
into the literary firmament. What has become of the 
author of that "Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 
Hyde," "The New Arabian Nights," and "Treasure 
Island?" Can it be the same hand that once "drew 
the long-bow" of story-telling with such marvellous 
power and skill, that now sends such a puerile shot as 
"The Black Arrow?" This is no tightly-strung cord 
indeed, whose rebound shall plant the feathered shaft in 
the bull's-eye center, quivering! On the contrary, it is 
the loosest sort of string, scarce attached at either end; — - 
and it goes trailing along — one feeble and frayed fold of 
invention following another with no logical continuity or 
sequence; — a weak thread spun out weekly. Poor Louis 
Stevenson ! His is no violent case of mental aberration ! 
Failing physical energies find a reflex in failing mental 
power. He needs "rest and a change." 

******** 



MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 261 

But the Haggard novel-writing fiend is as gaunt and 
grim, and as blood-thirsty as ever. His ideal hero 
reverses the old adage, "it is better to be the first at a 
feast than the last at a fray," for he is never so happy, — 
be it Allen Quatermain, Umslopgaas, or who he may — 
as when, standing in "the imminent deadly breach," he 
slaughters the natives by the score or by the hundred. 
"Saul has slain his thousands" — but Rider Haggard has 
slain his ten-thousands — by proxy, and with "the jaw- 
bone" — no, with the pen — of an ass-assin ! This is a 
"bloody Englishman" sure enough! He fairly gloats 
over murder and carnage. With some illusion of pict- 
uresque stage-setting, amid strange scenes, and with all 
the heightening of a "stunning" style, he idealizes the 
work of the typical cattle-shooter and champion pig- 
sticker of the Kansas City packing-house; only, his hero 
"gets in his work" — and a big day's work at that — on 
human beings, or at the very least on terrific lions or 
monstrous elephants. Three of the latter, his latest 
"big chief" slays in one night, "just for divarsion's sake, 
me boy, " — to fill in a wakeful hour or two, when it wasn't 
a very good night for sleeping — or for elephants either ! 

Whether this apotheosis of brutal butchery exerts any 
higher moral influence over the mind of youth than does 
the deprecated "yellow-covered" dime-novel may be a 
question. What is the essential difference between this 
and the "Big Bulldog of the Brazos," the "Red Slayer 
of Socorro," or "King Richard the Third." Their 
heroes, be they bandit, bully Briton or king are all alike 
in their appetite for blood, — and their easy royal manner 
of butchery. "Fee — Fi — Fo — Finn" — "Off with his 
head ! — so much for Buckingham ! " As the Lounger has 
just said of Haggard — there is a good deal of vivid 



262 MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 

picturing and phrasing, — a rush and a "go " of directness 
about the style that must be quite attractive to almost 
any boy: — but the brutishness is there all the same. 

For the Lounger, its quality — and especially its quan- 
tity — begins to pall. Even the excitement of the terrible 
conflicts and dangers wears off, when you find that after 
sacrificing all the poor fellows, that he has driven in to 
help him, the hero himself always comes out all right in 
the end. 

Long years agone, the Lounger suffered a succession 
of nightmares. Every night, in his dreams, he found 
himself frantically clutching, with hands and teeth, the 
lower edge of the roof of an exceedingly tall house, while 
his body dangled over the abyss below. It was at first 
decidedly unpleasant. But he continued to dream this 
same thing so often that at length a continuity was 
established, bridging over the intervals between; — that is, 
he came to recollect in his dream of having been through 
the same thing before ! With this recollection, came 
even this logic, — "I wasn't killed the last time, or I 
shouldn't be here now. I think I'll let myself drop ! " 
He did so, and fell — awake ! Thereafter, that particular 
nightmare had no terrors for him — and forsook him. 

So with the terrors of the Rider Haggard school of 
romantic fiction, (a "rider haggard," by the way, is 
somewhat suggestive of "night-mare") too much famil- 
iarity with unlimited bravery, butchery and bugaboos 
generally, breeds contempt in mature minds. 

Possibly apprehending this philosophic truth, Haggard 
now "gives us a rest" — and a change. In his latest 
craze, "Mr. Meeson's Will," he treats us to a unique 
variation on the theme in fiction, of shipwreck and 
subsequent sojourn on a "desert island." The Lounger 



MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 263 

had supposed this theme and its incidents exhausted by- 
Defoe, Charles Reade and Frank Stockton; but Haggard 
discounts "Crusoe," "Foul Play," and "The Dusantes. " 
By one bold stroke he obliterates the "tracks in the 
sand," breaks Penfold's pearls, and demolishes even the 
"Ginger Jar." 

The mean, miserly Meeson — a British publisher — 
together with the heroine-novelist Miss Augusta Smithers, 
a boy, and two sailors, find themselves (about the middle 
of the book) cast alone on the desolate shores of Kergu- 
elen Land. Meeson, sick and dying, at last repents him 
of his sins — and especially of his will, which disinherited 
his nephew Eustace because said young man had 
chivalrously taken the part of said Augusta, cheated by 
the rascally publisher out of the proceeds of her novel. 
He is now most anxious to revoke, and bequeath his two 
million pounds to Eustace, back in England. Unfortu- 
nately it proves there is no paper-mill or stationery-store 
on this desert island, consequently no material to write 
the Will. With blood for ink, they might have managed, 
but there is no substitute for paper, — not a rag of linen 
among the whole party in flannel — the heroine having 
left her hem-stitched handkerchief behind, which leaves 
Meeson in despair ! However — "wherever there's a will 
(to be made) there's a way," — and Augusta, — inspired 
by a love of justice and a latent love for Eustace as 
well, — conceives an original idea. The Will can be 
tattooed on somebody's back, and thus borne back to 
England ! As no other "Barkis was willin' " to have the 
Will in, she finally shoulders the responsibility herself, 
and the sailor Bill — who is an expert in this old-fashioned 
species of type-writing — tattoos with a fish-bone and 
cuttle-fish ink a brief but comprehensive will, duly 



264 MIDSUMMER 3IADNE8S. 

attested, on the ivory shoulders of the fair Augusta. 
That fair back, resplendent in evening toilet, can never 
now be presented at court; her radiant shoulders 

Once lovely as a statoo 

Are now ruined with a tattoo ! 

This is a new and startling idea in fiction ! Let us 
trust it will never become popular, nor be carried too far, 
— no matter even if " there is millions in it ! " 

Meeson dies appositely soon after, Augusta angelically 
exclaiming: "Well ! I'm glad that it is over ! Anyway I 
do hope that I may never be called on to nurse another 
publisher." The sailors get drunk and drown themselves 
"out of hand." Augusta is rescued in the nick of time, 
and finally gets back to England, to bring her fair face — 
and her back — as a fortune to Eustace. There is natu- 
rally a big fight in the courts over this unique Will — but 
Eustace finally succeeds, of course, being so effectually 
"backed up" by Augusta Smithers. The contestants 
had employed some twenty eminent lawyers on their side, 
who made a great deal of legal noise, but after all, being 
only lawyers and not drummers, they couldn't beat a 
tattoo ! 

The Lounger votes that Rider Haggard be entitled to 
a ward all to himself, — the First Ward, indeed, — in the 
asylum for midsummer maniacs. 



MIDSUMMER POETRY. 



When Matthew Arnold desired to give to one of his 
propositions the force of an axiom, he was wont to 
preface it with "I said a long time ago that — ." In his 
mind, the fact that he had propounded it to the world 
several years before, effectually barred any possible 
contrary opinion with a statute of limitations; it fore- 
closed a mortgage upon the world of letters and ideas, 
and precluded finally any subsequent equity of redemption 
to any opposing notion whatever. 

The egotism of ordinary mortals is apt to be somewhat 
offensive — but that of Matthew Arnold pertained to so 
great a mind, and was withal so sublime in its unconscious 
audacity that we can but wonder and admire ! 

In humble imitation thereof, the Lounger might say 
that so long as a year ago, he called the attention of the 
Journal readers to the fact that literature at this torrid 
season of the year is apt to be affected with a midsummer 
madness. The manifestations may be mild in manner 
and moderate in measure, but — like great wit — they are 
"to madness close allied." That is, to madness of the 
midsummer variety, which overcomes the writers "like a 
summer cloud" — or rather like a July sun when you are 
abroad without a light cotton umbrella. 

Last season, the Lounger gave instances where it 
touched the brains of the prose romancers. Just now, 
he is inclined to test some of the midsummer poets. 

265 



266 MIDSUMMER POETRY. 

Some of these are crazy enough in the early spring-time 
when they sing madrigals to the birds and grass and 
flowers. Of the typical poet it may be said, as of Bayard 
Taylor's " Quaker Widow's" deceased husband, " I think 
he loved the spring." Some of the poets of the last 
generation were wont to love the distillery even better. 

During May and June they have a lucid interval, — but 
in this month of midsummer, they* break cut of their 
asylums and rove around among the newspapers and 
magazines. We know how this is ourselves. If the 
Lounger — like Mr. Wegg — ever does "drop into poetry" 
it is always in "Boffin's Bower," and at this very season 
of the year. 

Without preface, here goes for the gem of July ! It is 
a piece of sentiment, unaffected, and direct in its expres- 
sion. Its title is "Lost Light," and the writer strikes 
its key-note — its motif — in the first line: 

" I cannot make her smile come back- 
That sunshine of her face 

That used to make this worn earth seem 
At times so gay a place. 

The same dear eyes look out at me, 
The features are the same : 

But oh ! the smile is out of them, 
And I must be to blame." 

Now what the Lounger likes about this stanza — and he 
likes it exceedingly — is its touching simplicity. There is 
nothing mystical or metaphysical, involuted or evoluted, 
about its expression. It is poetry of the good old-fash- 
ioned sort; you understand just what the writer meant — 
and it "touches a chord" at once. There's nothing of 
Browning or the "latter-day poets" about this. So 
much the better. You can get it into a man's head 
without a surgical operation, or taking a club — that is, a 
Browning Club — to him. 



MIDSUMMER POETRY. 



267 



Touching, too — though perhaps a trifle tame and 
prosaic in diction — is the confession embraced in the 
last line of the stanza. No doubt Edward was to blame ! 
He intimates, it is true, that he doesn't know just why- — 
but if he would consult his own conscience closely, it is 
probable he could determine the why and the wherefore. 
A sunshine like that doesn't fade out of a good woman's 
face without reason ! Possibly he had taken to staying 
out late of nights, — or to chewing tobacco, and has a bad 
breath in consequence. Possibly — but why speculate ? 
If Edward really wants to know, he can find out. 

" Sometimes I see it still: I went 

With her the other day 
To meet a long-missed friend, and while 

We still were on the way, 
Her confidence in waiting love, 

Brought back for me to see, 
That old-time love-light to her eyes 

That will not shine for me. 1 ' 

Well now, Edward, you see that smile is not " done- 
gone" for good, and you, too, could share in it if you 
should deserve it ! But you recollect that when you 
were going down hill, on the way home from the station 
where you had driven her to meet the "long-missed 
friend," (not "missed" this time, for the train was on 
time and made a good connection) the faithful old gray 
horse stumbled, and then you laid on the lash unmerci- 
fully, and swore at him like a trooper. Just then that 
smile went out of her face "quicker than wink," and fled 
like "the light that never was on sea or land." What- 
ever else you let go of, Edward, keep your temper ! 
Hold on to that always ! I think you will. 

" They tell me money waits for me : 
They say I might have fame. 
I like these gewgaws quite as well 
As others like those same." 



268 MIDSUMMER POETRY. 

They tell you "money waits for you!" Beware, 
Edward ! 'Tis a set-up job. They will play the confi- 
dence-game on you sure, if you're not on the lookout ! 
Money isn't waiting for anybody these days. Most 
people have to work hard for it; even prize-fighters have 
to fight for it, and if you invest in Wichita town lots, it 
is you that will have to wait for the money and not the 
converse ! 

"They say you might have fame." Well, you might, 
and then again you might not. "Doubtful things are 
mighty uncertain." On the whole, perhaps midsummer 
poetry gives you just as good a chance as any other way. 
You confess that you "like those gewgaws quite as well" 
as does the average person, or, as you tersely put it, "as 
others like those same." By the way, while "those 
same" strikes one as reminiscent of Bret Harte's "Truth- 
ful James," is it good enough poetry for July even? If 
this be allowed to stand, the next fellow will be working 
the phrase "of the which I am which" into poetry ! 

But the next stanza is tip-top good poetry. It is direct, 
— it is forcible, — and the sentiment is well conveyed. 
The Lounger has no words of criticism or censure for 
the poet when he invokes — 

"Come back, dear vanished smile, come back!" 

Just bring it back yourself, Edward ! it' rests with you, 

for you were "to blame" in the first place! But now 

for the conclusion: — 

" Who wants the earth without its sun? 
And what has life for me 
That's worth a thought, if at its price 
It leaves me robbed of thee." 

'Tis a sweet sentiment; but who "wants the earth," 

anyway ? Yet here's a man that wouldn't be satisfied 

without "the sun," too! Edward, beware of covetous- 

ness, — "beware of ambition, by that sin fell the angels ! " 



MIDSUMMER POETRY. 



209 



The Lounger will scarce go so far as to suggest that if 
Edward " cannot make her smile come back" he should 
go away and never come back himself. On the contrary, 
if Thomas Moore made a success of it by singing "Her 
bright smile haunts me still," we dont see why Edward's 
"Lost Light" may not yet come back, and bring "the 
light of other days around" him — and us. But he must 
be more careful in every way, and especially with his 
poetry. He can write good lines, but he shouldn't allow 
himself to drop into prose and slang — or phrases that 
sound very much like it. At one moment, with great 
felicity, he gets hold of words and phrases most expressive 
of tender pathos — and the very next, with equal facility 
he "catches on" to "those same." Thus, what might 
prove a perfect poem, degenerates into an incongruous 
medley — almost a burlesque. Henceforth let him haply 
restrain a propensity to punctuate poetic points with the 
pen of a punning paragrapher ! 

sjc =fc s{c ;=< ^c =fc ^c sf; =f: 

For some good sane verse, though born at home and 
in midsummer, take Mrs. Allerton's "Fields of Kansas." 
The prairie landscape in all the luxuriance of this — its 
most luxuriant — season is here well reproduced in word- 
painting, from a palette well stored with local color. If 
to the eye and ear of a stranger, there might seem a little 
too frequent recurrence of the note of "gold" in the 
landscape of Mrs. Allerton's verse, he would do well to 
bear in mind that, at even this season of the year, the 
gold in the sunset sky of Kansas is as common as its rich 
color is abundant in her harvest fields. 



HAND-MADE POETRY. 



There is an uncommon amount of fairly good poetry 
on the market now-a-days, considering that we haven't 
any really great poets "on the hook" in this day and 
generation, — since that galaxy of great poets that adorned 
the past era is fast sinking below the horizon. But there 
is a goodly supply of second-best poetry afloat in the 
newspapers and magazines, all the while. Not so partic- 
ularly at this season of the year. The Lounger is not 
now alluding to poetry of the Midsummer variety, which 
bubbles and boils and, like the current mercury, comes 
near bursting out through the top of the thermometer. 

No. the Lounger hasn't that especially in mind at this 
moment! Far less, what is called "machine-poetry." 
That is not worth considering at all. But what he 
was referring to was good "hand-made" poetry. There 
never was a time when more of this kind was pro- 
duced, and it usually is of a very clever sort, indeed. 
A large number of the rising young literary fellows of the 
country are working at it, and the product, on the whole, 
is very creditable. The only question is does it supply 
a long-felt want? Will it fairly take the place of the 
old-fashioned sort of poetry? 

It is indeed, constructed secundum arlem, by scholars 
and men of talent, who understand all the rules fully as well 
as did the old masters of the business. All the various 
forms are employed with great art. Some forms, indeed, 
are mastered that the old fellows scarce attempted — the 

870 



HAXD-MADB POETRY 



271 



A7//<7</<- and the rondeau,— while the sonnet, that highly 

artistic form of verse, which used to tax the resources of 
the average poet so high that it exhausted all his income, 
and nobody but the upper classes consequently had any 
•-outcome" therein. — the sonnet is now-a-days mastered 
by every young aspiring rhymester. 

Holman Hunt records in his recent papers on the Pre- 
Raphaelite Brotherhood that, early in his literary life, 
Dante Gabriel Rossetti sent specimens of his poems to 
Leigh Hunt, requesting his counsel as to whether he 
should devote himself to literature as a profession. This, 
as the Lounger understands, is no unusual course with 
nascent poets. The advice of the gray veteran of 
literature, given while complimenting Rossetti's efforts, 
was to the tenor that the profession of poetry was "too 
pitiable to be chosen in cold blood.'" Rossetti. like most 
others in a quandary, sought the most competent advice 
he could get- and then followed his own inclinations, 
which in his case led by turns to poetry and to art. 

It strikes us. however, that the answer of Hunt intimated 
an appreciation of the proper function of poetry, and the 
rationale of its production, a great deal higher and clearer 
than that of the young inquirer. It would truly be a 
cold-blooded piece of business to say: Go to. now! I 
shall make poetry ! Poetry by the ream — poetry by the 
hundred-weight. Poetry shall be the business for me I 

The Lounger may be wrong, but it occurs to him that 
there should be more spontaneity about it than this. The 
true poet should sing because the song is already in his 
heart and will burst forth. Of such there is little danger 
that they will live mute and inglorious, or "die with all 
their music in them." 

Possibly this is but an obsolete view of the art. The 



272 



HAND-MADE POETRY. 



more modern way is for the poet to sit down after break- 
fast — as Trollope used to spin out a novel — and churn 
out just so many lines or pages at a sitting, '-rain or 
shine," inspiration fit, or "non fit" And then, take it 
up again in the afternoon; work it over, and get all the 
buttermilk out; striking out a sentence here and there 
(that gave the sense and connection) so as to get the 
happy effect of elision; turning it over and inside out and 
working in the "Attic salt" (or the cellar salt) of a 
paradox or a cryptogram occasionally, so as to render it 
forceful and rugged like Browning; — or else treat it as 
a piece of rough-casting and painfully file away at it for 
hours, and then polish and gild and burnish and otherwise 
finish it, until it becomes as smooth and decorative as 
William Morris and Tennyson when in their weak estate. 

Rossetti, in his early salad days, we find haunting the 
British Museum, poring over old romances of chivalry, 
in order, as he said, to light upon "good stunning words 
for poetry." One is inevitably reminded by this of 
Dickens in his boyhood, as little Davie Copperfield, 
calling at the tavern for a glass of the "Genuine Stunning 
ale," — and his subsequent doubt as to whether he actually 
got the genuine "Stunning" after all ! 

The poetry that is evolved through much head-scratch- 
ing, persistent brain-cudgelling, and consulting of rhyming- 
dictionaries and Roget's Thesaurus answers exceeding 
well for Carriers' Addresses, but is hardly to be classed 
as the genuine thing. 

Possibly, however, it is not the method after all but 
the result that is important. There are many roads, with 
perhaps none of them "royal," into the kingdom of 
poetry, and the Master, though groping, stumbling or 
straying wildly in the outset, will "get there all the same." 



A BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP. 



An interesting article on the subject of "Revision," 
in the Writer, for April, calls attention, by way of illus- 
tration, to the fact that the manuscript of Dickens' 
Novels is blackened on every page by erasures and 
interlineations. 

The author of said article (it is rather awkward to 
write of the writer in the Writer) has safely skated over 
the thin ice which covers a deep truth ! To change the 
figure, he has skirted the shores of an unknown continent 
of truth, of which indeed, he might haply have been the 
discoverer, save for the mists of tradition and fogs of 
fraud that veiled it from his vision. 

The Lounger, too, has examined the original manu- 
scripts of those wondrous tales, as they still exist in the 
Foster collection of the South Kensington Museum. He 
too, noted with surprise, the apparent fact that a world- 
renowned genius had been under the necessity of revising 
his words and recasting his sentences, on every page. 
But the Lounger has gone deeper than this and discovered 
more. Not only the phrasing in the manuscript has 
been altered, but — in one conspicuous instance, at least — 
the thought, the conception of the Novelist has been 
completely transmogrified ! The original one was full of 
meaning, of beauty, and of strength. This has been 
malignantly sacrificed and eliminated by erasure, and an 
entirely new one — weak and meaningless — substituted ! 

19 873 



274 



A BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP. 



This discovery the Lounger made in the course of his 
investigations and examinations of the manuscript of that 
great masterpiece of fiction, "David Copperfield. " The 
reader will recall the case of "Mr. Dick" therein, who 
is supposed to be the victim of a mild monomania, in 
which his thoughts, and especially his writings, get inex- 
tricably entangled with the gory locks of Charles the 
First's Head. 

This had always seemed to the Lounger a very strange 
vagary, indeed; one wholly forced and unnatural ! Why 
should Charles the First's head get into the author's head, 
and through that into Mr. Dick's head? If a caput- 
?nortuum was really needed — and a king's head at that — 
why travel so far back in history as two hundred years ? 
Why not take the first (and last) one that came to hand — 
the caput of Louis Capet? The thing is absurd — the 
head is absurd — on the face of it ! 

Now this "death's head" is brought in to this literary 
feast as a sort of side dish — an entree — a pitiable substi- 
tute for the original serving of something substantial and 
sensible! "A Bull in a China Shop," was what was 
represented as making the real trouble in Mr. Dick's 
mental warehouse ! Here is the passage as it was 
conceived and written: 

"Do you recollect the date," said Mr. Dick, looking 
earnestly at me and taking up his pen to note it down, 
"when [that bull got into the china warehouse and did 
so much mischief?"] 

Now, all the latter part of the paragraph — that which 
the Lounger has bracketed above, — has been carefully 
stricken out by a pen-mark drawn through it, and the 
following most weak and impotent conclusion substituted: 
["King Charles, the First's head was cut off ?"] 



A BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP. 275 

Now, this is no mere accident ! That notable original 
text was written with a purpose, and the substitution has 
been made through design — a deep and dark design. 

The Lounger might just as well announce his discovery 
without further preliminary. The world will have to 
be startled anyway, sooner or later. It has too long- 
been the innocent victim of a deception, compared with 
which, Mr. Dick's hallucination was mild indeed ! 
Charles Dickens never wrote the Dickens Novels! 
Their true author was a far greater (and better) man, 
whose name was but thinly concealed under the pseudo- 
nym of "Boz ! " 

The world is already aware that the earlier sketches 
were printed over that signature, which however, being 
to some extent in cipher, was never wholly understood. 
Charles Dickens got hold of the manuscripts; altered 
them with his miserable corrections and emendations; 
published them, — and palmed them off upon a confiding 
world as his own ! 

In the meantime, through arts and influences not 
necessary to be recorded here but which will be fully 
disclosed in My Book — he had suppressed Boz, and 
almost entirely silenced him on the subject. Poor Boz 
wandered about England disconsolately, — never dis- 
tinctly divulging his wrongs: yet whenever he might hear 
the impostor lauded as the greatest novelist of the age, 
he could not forbear exclaiming impulsively and derisively 
"Oh, the dickens!" (There was a cipher in that). 
This he repeated so often that at last it became a 
by-word. 

But though he bore the outrage so patiently (for 
reasons to be unfolded in My Book) — he had resolved 
that posterity at least, should do him justice and honor, 



276 ^ BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP. 

and so took pains to insert in that remarkable passage in 
"Copperfield," a Cryptogram — which, properly inter- 
preted, reveals the fact that he, and not the usurper, 
Charles Dickens, was the author. -'The Bull in the 
China Shop" contains this great cipher! "Boz" had 
too much good sense to wait and carve this as an epitaph 
on his own tombstone; — and he was fearful that he might 
not get the chance to enter Westminster Abbey and place 
it on that of Charles Dickens. Neither would he take 
the risk of inserting it in any posthumous edition of the 
Novels, lest the paging thereof might not prove uniform 
with the contemporaneous ones. He therefore put it 
into "Copperfield," as he wrote it ! 

The Cipher is simplicity itself — when you come to 
understand it. It does not add up on the "put down a 
cipher and carry one" principle whenever you strike 10 
(this really "strikes twelve the first time"); — nor does it 
progress with first a hop, then a skip, and finally a jump ! 
Like a Limited Express, it starts out promptly on schedule 
time, stops only at regular coaling and watering stations, 
and never misses a connection. "It attends strictly to 
business, and dont go fooling around." It is always 
loaded and never fouls or hangs fire. There is no other 
cipher on the market that will do half as much, or begin 
to do it so well. For instance: — to indicate that it begins 
right at the beginning (which is the only scientific way 
of adjusting a cipher — for those that begin in the middle 
can be ciphered both ways) — B, the first letter in Bull, is 
the same as B, the first letter of Boz ! The rest of this 
cipher will be found in My Book — 1000 pages, all in 
one volume — sold only by subscription. 

Again, "Boz" took a little mild revenge on his base 
oppressor by satirizing him, in the same place in 



A BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP. 277 

"Copperfield," as "Mr. Dick." This, you see, is almost 
Dickens' own name itself ! Could anything well be 
plainer? Under this title he pictures him as maundering 
over manuscripts and perpetually scribbling on a mass of 
fatuous nonsense, — which, indeed, Dickens' own writings 
are in comparison with those of Boz ! A great many 
people to this day complain that they cannot endure the 
mannerisms of this novelist, overlaying and obscuring as 
they do, the beauties of the author. Now those are 
simply the abominable "revisions" and "emendations" 
that Charles Dickens interlined when he got hold of the 
manuscripts; — "improvements," he called them, and 
actually imagined that he was superior as a writer. 

No wonder that there was a subtle significance of irony 
introduced by the real author in this memorable cipher 
passage ! Dickens is compared to a bull who has got 
into a china-shop — blundering around and ignorantly 
wrecking and demolishing the delicate products of artistic 
genius. Moreover, — Boz prophetically foresaw the day 
when some future American (not Irish) Ignatius, or 
Lounger should discover the cipher, and thereupon 
"make a break for" and of, and bring to "everlasting 
smash" the brittle literary reputation of Charles Dickens. 
You see there is a double and a treble cipher in this 
wonderful passage ! 

Charles Dickens, without interpreting this fully, mis- 
trusted something of it — his dull intellect being stimulated 
and quickened thereon through the tormentings of a 
guilty conscience. He therefore erased the passage, and 
substituted that nonsense about Charles the First's head ! 

Fortunately, the Lounger has been enabled at this late 
date, to bring the truth to light; — restoring the Bull and 
the China Shop to their proper place in cryptographic 



278 A BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP. 

literature — and the true author to his rightful heritage of 
fame! " Codlin's the friend — not Short!" (A Cipher!) 

This serves to explain many startling incongruities, 
and reconciles apparent paradoxes that have long per- 
plexed the world. Charles Dickens, the man, has for 
years been known as the complete antithesis of Dickens 
the author ! 

The Writer — the real "Boz" — reveals a genuine man 
in every fiber of his being: — full of warm affections and 
kindly sympathies that reach out to embrace all humanity, 
even in its lowliest conditions. 

Charles Dickens, the individual, was a weak and vain 
creature — a pseudo-exquisite of the first water, — and a 
good deal of a snob beside. 

In the works, the Author stands out nobly distinct as 
the resolute defender of all the dearest sanctities of home 
and family. No one in English literature has done more 
to inspire sympathy for man toward man, or reverence 
toward woman. The lessons of duty are taught so 
plainly, that he who reads may run — in the right path 
always. 

Charles Dickens, the neglectful husband, almost broke 
the heart of a good woman, the mother of his children ! 
Compare and contrast this with the forbearance and 
devotion so beautifully pictured as exhibited toward a 
weak and even silly "child-wife" by David Copperfield ! 

The Novelist exemplified the foibles of an absurdly 
weak and selfish character in picturing Mrs. Nickleby, — 
and drew an inimitably funny type in portraying Wilkins 
Micawber, "always waiting for something to turn up." 
This was all well enough for "Boz," who was in no wise 
related to originals of either: but if the reputed man was 
the author, then Dickens, before the wide world, bur- 



A BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP. 279 

lesqued his father and ridiculed his own mother ! Charles 
Dickens had many faults, but he could scarce have been 
guilty of this ! No, no — we must look elsewhere for the 
authorship. 

As well suppose that the deer-stealing poacher of 
Warwickshire, — the third-rate actor of Blackfriars and 
the Globe; the vulgar, carousing, money-getting, money- 
letting, second-best-bed-devising man of Stratford ever 
wrote the immortal dramas that bear the name of Shakes- 
peare — as to conceive that such a personality as that of 
Charles Dickens could have existed in the author of the 
Dickens Novels ! 

The two men are absolutely irreconcilable. Charles 
Dickens "knew little Latin and less Greek;" — "Boz," 
was a "gentleman (which Charles Dickens never was) 
and a scholar ! " 

Somebody, indeed, has advanced that "between what 
a man is, and what he writes, there is no necessary 
likeness, — no connection of cause and effect." This is 
evidently but another of those theories, "as absurd as 
hundreds of other suppositions that are made to fit the" 
novels to Dickens, and Dickens to the Novels. 

There will, of course, be controversy now ! The 
Dickensolaters will not give up without a struggle. The 
literary world will be divided into a "Boz" party and a 
"Dickens" party. There will be The-Bull-in-the-china- 
shop theory of authorship — and The-Charles-the-First's- 
head theory. But truth is mighty and will at last prevail ! 
It will prevail all the sooner when people buy and read 
the Lounger's Book — My Book. In that will be disclosed 
the mystery'yet reserved — Who was Boz? 



A FUNNY FRENCHMAN. 



The Lounger is endeavoring to maintain some 
acquaintance with the rising notabilities of the period; — 
and striving, especially, to "keep up with the procession" 
of the Great Humorists of To-day. 

This is not so very difficult after all for even a slow- 
going Lounger. The number of the truly great is not 
large, nor their procession half so long in "passing any 
given point" — of wit — as the most of them are in arriving 
at one. 

The latest celebrity of this kind is a Frenchman whom 
parents and god-father christened Paul Blouet, but who 
calls himself Max O'Rell. 

It strikes us at first as something odd that one of that 
nation should set up as a humorist, though we are free to 
admit that in wit they have never been lacking. Bright 
and ready as they are, the French have always proverb- 
ially been known to have their Wits about them ! Usually, 
however, they have been quicker to "grasp the situation"' 
than apt to appreciate the humorousness which may lie 
in one. A Frenchman endeavoring not simply to be 
funny in himself, but to create fun in and for the world, 
is certainly an anomaly on the stage of America, as on 
the American stage; "a spectacle for gods and men," — 
and the "gallery-gods" who are wont to view him in 
conventional aspect as a creature of shrug, grimace and 
broken pronunciation, should now revise their judgment,. 

280 



A FUNNY FRENCHMAN. 281 

and take him, as a good many Americans already do, at 
his own conception and estimation of himself — for a 
humorist of the first water. 

Max O'Rell has already been characterized by some 
one as "the French Mark Twain." Given "Every man 
in his humor," and to his own conception of it, no doubt 
this would suit Max exactly, whether it would really fit 
him or no. Palpably he has marked Twain for a model; 
has modeled himself upon the American humorist as far 
as possible, — and nothing would delight him more than 
that "these twain" of different nationalities should be 
recognized as of "one flesh," or at least, one twin- 
brotherhood. 

If indeed, there were not such an absence of acidity 
about him, we might approximately term him a sort of 
Pyro-Gallic Clemens! Imagine Yankee, Munchausen 
exaggeration superimposed upon French " spirituelle"-ity, 
and you have, perhaps, the key of the combination and 
—Max O'Rell ! 

Without reverting to the first book which gave him 
repute — a light study of England and the English, entitled 
"John Bull and his Island" — let us take a glance at his 
latest, which is supposed to concern ourselves, "Jonathan 
and his Continent." It is America contemplated by a 
flaneur of the Boulevards — and Americans seen and read 
through a French monocle. 

The very first sentence gives you a taste of his quality 
and indicates what you may expect in the way of exact 
statistical information. "The population of America is 
sixty millions, mostly colonels. " This, you see, discounts 
Sydney Smith and Carlyle for amiability, if not originality, 
and you note at once that here is one who while losing 
no time in getting at the kernel (and the colonels) of the 



282 A FUNNY FRENCHMAN. 

whole matter in two lines, is himself, no mere line officer, 
but a very general at generalization. 

However he soon gets down to business and to details, 
and while some of them are faithful, as obvious, enough, 
and cutely described, others are, to say the least, astound- 
ing! It might seem as if Max, or his collaborator, had 
filled up the book by borrowing largely the productions 
of the end-men of American journalism, — accepting all 
their stories as gospel facts, illustrative of American life, 
in its true inwardness and entirety. If, indeed, these 
fellows had laid a veritable trap for him, they could 
hardly have "stuffed him up" more completely or suc- 
cessfully. 

"In vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird," — 
but this Gallic fowl walks right into this sort of snare, 
crowing lustily all the while over his "finds." 

The editor of the Critic, though far removed from 
above class of journalists, caught Max "out" almost 
before he left his native shores, by requesting an article 
giving his preconceived ideas of America. Max took this 
in sober earnest as an absurd exemplification of the 
American anxiety to know, in advance even, the foreigner's 
idea of our country ! Good-naturedly complacent and 
usually complimentary withal, he is constantly being 
surprised at these wonderful Americans — and especially 
at the marvellous Westerners. To him, all those old 
newspaper "saws" about them and their "wild and 
wooly" ways are veritably "all wool," though they may 
be many a "yard wide" — of the truth. 

If he had chanced, for example, to read that a Western 
City Council, going out of town in a body on a junket, 
had furnished themselves at the expense of their city 
treasury, with a brass band to give themselves eclat on 



A FUNNY FRENCHMAN. 



23 3 



the way, Max would have accepted the improbable state- 
ment as undoubted fact, and exemplified it as the usual 
and typical thing with American town councils ! 

There was once a man — his name it was Infelicitas — 
who deplored mournfully the loss of truth and the decay 
of faith in the world and in himself. He declared that 
things had got to such a pass that he sometimes doubted 
even the absolute truth of what he saw in the newspapers. 
At least some of it ! 

He died shortly after. He couldn't live without faith ! 

There is no trouble of that kind with Max O'Rell. 
He finds it much easier to believe all the writings of the 
local editors than to hunt up proof thereof — and he 
reprints them with great gusto as veritable facts, illustra- 
tive of American life. 

Not only is Mark Twain his great exemplar, but he is 
disposed to attribute to that humorist all the venerable 
publications of Joseph Miller, and all the fossil Castanea 
that have come down or been dug up from the Pre- Silurian 
ages. All these he credits to Mark — including that 
characteristic touch about the lawyer, who was found so 
unrealistic because he had his hands in his own pockets ! 
In a foot-note, however, he expresses a lingering doubt 
as to whether this is wholly new. 

New! Why, bless you, Max! — Eleazar, the son of 
Aaron, told that same thing, in great glee, to a select 
circle of the Levites, one night when they were all relax- 
ing themselves mightily swapping jokes; — told it to them 
as a new and especially good one on "the doctors of the 
law." And, long before that, Abraham had reported it 
to Melchizedek, as the latest bon 7uot from Egypt — just 
brought across the desert by caravan. Going that way 
they had no other loading — and took it as ballast. 



284 



A FrXXY FEEXCHMAN. 



But to pass from Max's ancient jests to modern earnest 
— here is a veritable fact: new, perhaps, to us, though it 
happened right here, "under our noses," — though, for- 
tunately not upon any of our noses ! 

••A clergyman in Kansas has just had his nose bitten 
off by a member of his flock who took exception to some 
of his remarks in the pulpit." This would be a caution 
to evangelists — with a vengeance ! 

Balance this up with an anecdote illustrating the crudity 
and prude-ity of the effete East: 

"A Philadelphia lady, in whose house a gentleman 
was seated one day at a table, grew red to her ears at his 
asking her which part of the chicken she preferred, the 
wing or the leg." 

Back to "our muttons" again, the wooly Westerners! 
Note how tamely we defer to the ladies in traveling: 

"In the States of Kansas, Colorado and others, a 
woman on entering a car will touch a man on the shoulder 
and say to him almost politely: "I like that seat — you 
take another ! "' 

Contrast this state of society, and man reduced to the 
abject submission of high civilization, — with the but 
recent condition of New York city, where "good-looking 
young women of the best society cleared its streets from 
disreputable characters by going out themselves at night 
unattended, and then striking every man who accosted 
them." 

That was the way it was done '. A slight touch on the 
shoulder is sufficient in Kansas — but in Xew York city. 
it required a vigorous striking out from the shoulder to 
accomplish "what the authorities dared not undertake," 
so that is now perfectly safe for respectable ladies to go 
about the streets at night without escort ! 



A FUNNY FRENCHMAN. 285 

Max had this on the best authority — ''a lady who 
enjoyed that most esteemed of woman's rights, the right 
to be pretty," — and who gave him "some very curious 
details on the subject of New York life." Well! — the 
Lounger should think so — and how much amused she 
must have been to see him jotting it all down in his little 
note book ! 

Was it the same lady, indeed, who gave him those 
veracious details as to the mode and manner in which 
young girls "of the best society" manage to secure 
wealthy or high-born husbands through bulldozing and 
black-mailing — and of the peculiar laws that aid them in 
accomplishing it? 

O'Rell was over here long enough — say six months — 
not only to secure many of these choice stories but also 
to learn several things about our government and laws 
which had escaped painstaking Mr. Bryce, close observer 
and faithful student though he was. But then, "John 
Bull," even when off "his island," can hardly hope to 
rival "Johnny Crapaud" of continental scope and intui- 
tive sagacity ! For example: — 

"Execution by electricity has just been adopted by 
the governor of New York. " Query — is the "governor 
of New York" an absolute, or a limited monarch? 

"During four years, the President has almost carte 
blanche. He can declare war and stop legislation. " 
Clearly our President at all events is an absolute monarch 
— "during four years! " 

Of course Max was very much impressed with the 
differing characteristics of our great cities — and recites 
them off-hand very glibly indeed. — "In New York, it is 
your money that will open all doors to you; in Boston it 
is your learning; in Philadelphia or Virginia, it is your 



286 A FUNNY FRENCHMAN. 

genealogy. " This was striking and original — with the 
man who first discovered it — but Max weakens its force 
somewhat by the tautologic corollary — ''therefore if you 
wish to be a success, parade your dollars in New York, 
your talents in Boston, your ancestors in Philadelphia and 
Richmond." Then what will you have left for Kansas 
City, Max ? Possibly you wont need much ! 

Our traveler admires Boston ideas however, (pronounce 
" Boast-on," he says, — which may be a French jeu-de- 
mot) — and adds, — "The moral sense of the people will 
triumph: Boston, not Kansas will win," — which is bad 
for Kansas. Maybe Max is a resubmissionist ! 

Of course he couldn't get out of Chicago without 
repeating that wonderful story of Mrs. O'Leary's cow 
which "kicked the bucket" in 1871 — "when Chicago 
had about 100,000 inhabitants." 

The Lounger would, perhaps, be creating a wrong 
impression concerning this book, if he failed to mention 
that, after all, it is somewhat entertaining and really 
contains some truth mixed up with its nonsense and 
fiction. There are certain aspects of American society 
which are so palpable that "he who runs may read," 
even though he "runs on" as fast and lightly as Max 
O'Rell. The be-diamonded-at-breakfast and decolleted- 
in-afternoon women; the high-pressure, fast-living men; 
the wash-ladies and the "duchess" servant girls; the 
train-boy nuisance and the fool sleeping-car porter; even 
the hotel table-girl of the "second-rate-towns," who 
brings your indigestible dinner, selected from the magic 
formula of verbal menu — "Troutanturbotshrimpsauce 
roastbeefturkeycranberrysaucepotatoestomatoesappletart 
mincepievanillacream;" — all these are set down faithfully, 
needing no exaggeration. To a foreigner they are strange 
enough, just as they are ! 



A FUNNY FRENCHMAN. 



287 



"All gall is divided into three parts" — as Caesar told 
us long ago, before it became so concentrated. This 
modern Gaul has already shown us his three literary 
sections — "John Bull and his Island," "John Bull, Jr.," 
and now, "Jonathan and his Continent." And yet, if 
not wholly complete, let him quadrate these with a final 
"Jonathan, Jr.," devoted entirely to our Western States, 
and to fancy — and not disfigured by any faults of fact 
whatever ! 

For this, it will not at all be necessary to make another 
trip over on the "Germanic." It can all be done by the 
Collaborator; for this Gallic lion has an American 
jackall, who figures on the title-page as Jack All-yn, — 
he can compile the whole work from the columns of the 
"Arizona Kicker," and it will be all right. 



A COLLABORATION. 



With the mercury mounting madly up to par, and 
above it; with red-hot meteors plunging and ploughing 
earthward; with a torrid sun sizzling and frying all the 
livelong day; with lurid planets burning in the evening 
sky; with all nature, ourselves included, parched and 
roasted within a "dry belt," from which every passing 
rain-cloud flees affrighted; with all this, the Lounger is 
prudently determined not to take life or literature just 
now any more seriously than he is perforce obliged. 
Beyond the range of sun or star, — the milky- way of the 
midsummer magazine or the nebula of the daily news- 
paper, — he shall not venture far in his reading, and 
should he haply encounter an occasional book whizzing 
through space, he shall endeavor to get out of danger of 
being crushed by its weight, rather than to venture upon 
any critical examination of its constituent elements, or to 
label it scientifically for any literary museum. 

One such volume the Lounger came in contact with 
the other day, and it struck him — on the whole not unfa- 
vorably. Just sufficient to leave an impression and yet 
not heavy enough to hurt. There should have been a 
mighty magic in it, for it was all about the "Master of 
the Magicians." 

It is a Collaboration — of which there have been several 
notable instances in modern story-writing. George Sand 
and Alfred de Musset wrote, for awhile with each other, 
and then against each other. Charles Dickens and Wilkie 

288 



A COLLABORATION. 



289 



Collins found therein "No Thoroughfare." Charles 
Reade and Dion Boucicault thereby produced "Foul 
Play," — which was no play at all, though afterward dram- 
atized. Then there was the literary "Combination" of 
Erckmann-Chatrian; of Walter Besant and James Rice; 
of Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner, in the 
"Gilded Age." These literary partnerships usually last 
not long. The one that invented Colonel Sellers was 
good for that trip and Train only. The Erckmann- 
Chatrian firm fell asunder, for the partners fell out. 
In our latest and most modern instance, however, the 
Lounger trusts they may not, for "it's all in the family," 
and they have just come together. It is Elizabeth Stuart 
Phelps and Herbert Ward whose life partnership has now 
resulted in a literary Collaboration. Success to them ! 

Miss Phelps had long been a popular and, on the 
whole, a very readable story-writer. Not to speak of 
her many other —and better — stories, everybody remem- 
bers her "Gate" series: The Gates Ajar, The Gates 
Between, Beyond the Gates. These have sold well, 
especially the first, which has reached its seventy-fifth 
thousand! "Born to the purple" of genius, winning 
both fame and the favor of public and publishers, Miss 
Phelps has happily tasted some of the sweets of "royalty." 
She has probably had no reason to be dissatisfied with 
her share of "the Gate money." 

But to return to our Master of the Magicians — "which 
his name it was" Daniel. This is a story of Babylon. 
It has been termed an historical romance, but in truth it 
occupies itself very little with any sequence of historical 
events, though dealing quite intimately with a certain 
period of Babylonian history. It is a very vivid picture, 
almost "a set-piece," indeed, illustrating life in the 
ancient city. It paints first Nebuchadrezzar at the height 



290 



A COLLABORATION. 



of his glory, and then precipitated to his downfall. The 
scene of the interpretation of his vision; the building of 
the hanging-gardens for his Median queen, and the final 
lapse into memorable madness; — all these are pictur- 
esquely presented. 

The writers disclaim in the outset any attempt to 
preserve the unities of Biblical chronology. There have 
been too many school-masters abroad, too many cunei- 
form inscriptions found and deciphered. They will let 
the Biblical chronology take care of itself. If this were 
all, the Lounger might let it pass, but from other things 
set forth in the story his fears are excited that one or the 
other of the united authors may not be strictly orthodox. 
Which is it, the guardian authoress, or her Ward ? 

Daniel is presented as a pronounced hypnotist, and 
this serves to account for some of his manifestations. He 
sways and influences people by "magnetizing" them, 
and he himself goes off into trances, with or outside of 
his own volition. It is true the collaborators prudently 
leave matters in shadowed doubt sometimes as to whether 
Daniel's trances are really prophetic or hypnotic — with 
the intimation that, like those of most "seers," there 
probably existed a "collaboration" of the two. But at all 
events, Daniel was really one of the Magi of the King's 
court, the greatest of them all, the Master of the Magicians. 

The incident of the "den of lions" is — perhaps, pru- 
dently — not introduced. That might have been a little 
more difficult to treat satisfactorily on the hypnotic 
theory. Daniel is, however, introduced to the King's 
zoological garden, where the caged lions are let out singly 
for the King to pursue and kill. In this chapter, Daniel 
actually does come into contact with one of these, slays 
him, and thereby saves the King's life. He is brought 



A COLLABORATION. 291 

into very close quarters with the fierce brute — but, with 
the writers' skill in description, it is always possible to 
distinguish "Daniel from the lions." 

The fact that there is an actual disease and form of 
madness, to which a real medical name has been affixed, 
Lycanthropy, in which the sufferer conceives himself 
transformed into an animal, and simulates the corres- 
ponding actions and habits,— this serves fairly to account 
for the fate of Nebuchadrezzar, "turned out to grass" of 
his own volition, and without miracle either called in, or 
called in question. 

There have long been so many "burning questions" 
of theology appertaining to Daniel and the Book of 
Daniel, which flame up when the torch of investigation 
is applied, that these collaborators have done wisely in 
distracting our interest to other romantic characters that 
had not previously found a place in history. Of course 
there is a love story, and Daniel the magician fails not to 
be touched somewhat by the mighty magic of love, over 
which he triumphs in magnanimity, but emerges not 
quite "heart-whole, with the least little touch of" regret, 
at the end of the book. 

Without entering into any criticism of the style in 
which the story is written, the Lounger wishes to submit 
one paragraph for information. Daniel is being described : 

"For so young a man he was eminent as a scholar; 
quick in acquiring a difficult language and the science of 
the observation of the stars contained therein." 

Now the Lounger being unusually dull, cannot disting- 
uish those stars or determine their location; nor which was 
"contained" in the "difficult language" — the stars, the 
observation, or the science ! He leaves the passage to his 
readers. It may strike them so forcibly that they shall 
be able to see stars "contained therein" quite plainly. 



292 



A COLLABORATION. 



Here is something a great deal clearer, — a literary 
coincidence ! Here is where Bulwer got a striking inci- 
dent for his play of Richelieu ! He unconsciously 
borrowed it from the Magician Mutusa-illi, in the "Master 
of the Magicians." Mutusa-illi had been the "head 
man," the "boss" of all the Babylonian Magicians, 
before Daniel discounted and deposed him ! When 
failing to discover and interpret Nebuchadrezzar's vision, 
to cover his disgraceful defeat and to save his life, he 
drives back the king's guards and minions ordered to 
seize and execute him and his companions — with this 
dread announcement: "Here we stand. I draw about 
this people the mystic circle of the skies. Fall back ye 
slaves and soldiers ! Step but a sandal within this awful 
ring and Raman blasts ye in his wrath ! Backward, I 
say ! or I hurl the curse of Ana, II and Hea at you, and 
your first born die ! " 

Now this antedates Richelieu and launching the famous 
"Curse of Rome," by several centuries. What new 
historical romancer next steps forward to put "The pen 
is mightier than the sword" — say, into the mouth of 
Jacob, when he had got most all of Laban's flocks and 
herds corralled so cleverly ! 

— The Lounger recommends — in good faith — "The 
Master of the Magicians," as good midsummer reading. 
While it is sufficiently sensational, its excitements can 
always be tempered for the hot weather by the reflection 
that things have had time since to cool down. With the 
romance of three thousand years agone, you are pretty 
sure that all the historic characters embraced therein are 
now departed, and with respect to the others, that if they 
havn't got through with their troubles yet, it is about 
time that they were about it. 



THE TAMING OF A SHREW. 



" Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater 
Had a wife, and couldn't keep her: 
He put her in a pumpkin shell— 
And then he kept he?' very tveM." 

The world has long lacked due comprehension of the 
writings of William Shakespeare. This is chiefly the 
fault of our literary men who -have persistently ignored 
this author and refrained from mention of his works. 
Were the Lounger's ability commensurate with his zeal, 
this neglected writer would soon take his true place in 
literature, and his writings instead of being simply caviare 
to the general would become the chosen chowder of the 
high-private — even in the rear rank. 

The only trouble with Shakespeare is that he needs 
enlightened interpretation — and then he is "all right." 
The Lounger will make a beginning with an essay toward 
expounding that really charming work — no, play — of his, 
entitled "The Taming of the Shrew." 

The play proper opens with a scene in Padua in which 
appear nearly all the chief personages — Baptista Minola, 
his daughter Katharina the Shrew, her sister Bianca, with 
two of her suitors; also Lucentio and his confidential 
servant Tranio. 'Twere well now, so we may have a 
proper comprehension of events soon to follow, that we 
"make sure of our ground" in the beginning. Much is 
lost in reading Shakespeare by running too hastily and 
cursorily over lines that seem light and unimportant ! In 
Shakespeare every sentence and every word is pregnant 

293 



294 



THE TAMING OF A SHREW. 



with meaning. For example, it is stated in the outset 
that this scene is laid in "a public place in Padua." 
Now what is meant by a public place in Padua ? Let us 
by all means stop and consult those who have given 
time, thought, and the fruit of much learning to the 
careful consideration of these important questions. 
Dunderkopf, the great German critic, in his invaluable 
commentaries on this play (6 vols, folio — Leipsic, 1709) 
states that by a public place in Padua, was undoubtedly 
meant one of the public squares or open spaces at the 
intersections of the streets. Kreysigg in his later work, 
" Vorslungen Uber Shakespeare," and Ulrici in his 
" Shakesperi Dramatische Kunst" concur altogether in 
this view; and as Gervinus, Schlegel and Tieck, as well 
as the great body of the English and American commen- 
tators advance nothing to the contrary, we may consider 
this question as nearly settled as is possible with any fact 
alluded to by Shakespeare. Behold then on one of the 
public squares, or on one of the street corners of Padua, 
the Minola family and their suitors assembled ! 

However often the path of Shakespearean research 
may be traveled and closely scanned — the pains-taking 
and observing student can always find new and unex- 
pected beauties at every step, and have his eyes dazzled 
by new illuminations. Not only does Shakespeare "hold 
the mirror up to nature" of his own age, but deftly 
turning it in the bright sunlight of genius, he converges 
the vivid rays, and flashing them far backward across the 
dark absym of time into the dim recesses of the past, he 
irradiates every nook and corner with such effulgence 
that we read as 'twere to-day all their secrets forgotten 
by history ! In this way, manners and customs long 
obsolete are once more brought to the light of day ! 



THE TAMING OF A SHREW. 



295 



A beautiful illustration of the service Shakespeare 
renders thus incidentally, is afforded by this very scene. 
Were it not for its beneficent developments, who would 
ever have known that it was the custom of the higher 
classes — the best society of Padua — to rush out pell-mell 
upon the public squares and street corners whenever they 
wished to discuss their family disagreements and most 
private affairs, including their wooings and weddings ! 
Such, indeed, appears at all events to have been the 
habit of Baptista Minola, "his custom always of an 
afternoon" — and his family were by no means "backward 
in coming forward" to follow his frank and laudable 
example. Baptista Minola, though not wholly a model 
character possessed certainly one praiseworthy trait, — 
all his family business at least was transacted "on the 
square." Possibly there was a well and a town pump in 
this "public place" — for thither, like Rebecca of old, 
he brought out all his "family jars." But soft ! possibly 
they came into the cool, fresh air outside, because 
Katharine had just made the house too hot to hold them ! 
It may have been a "retreat," and not a "reveille." 

A.t all events, this gives strangers, such as Lucentio, a 
fine opportunity to learn all about the family, and this 
introduces him easily and naturally into the play. Lucentio, 
in his dialogue with his servant, discloses that he has just 
arrived from Pisa to study philosophy in the famed 
schools of Padua, and his first lesson begins with his 
learning all about the family affairs of one of the wealthy 
citizens of the place, but ends with his falling inconti- 
nently in love at first sight with the beautiful Bianca. 
The state of affairs in the Minola family, as developed 
by their free and easy manner of discussing them, is 
briefly as follows. — The younger daughter Bianca has two 



296 



THE TAMING OF A KHREW. 



suitors, Gremio and Hortensio, of whom, the former is 
old and wealthy. Old Baptista, for reasons best known 
to himself, is determined not to let the younger girl marry 
anybody until he has first disposed of the elder, Katha- 
rina, who, though not ill-looking, has somewhat badly 
spoiled her matrimonial market by an infirmity of temper 
that has gained for her the sobriquet of "The Shrew," 
and sometimes even that of "Katharine the Curst." 
Though rather "hard lines" on the suitors, they are 
compelled to submit to the decree of "the old man," 
who, in the meantime, is disposed to treat his daughters 
fairly, by providing them with private tutors in literature, 
music and mathematics; — from which we infer that the 
school of Padua, less liberal than those of Bologna, 
Salerno, and the University of Kansas, excluded women 
from its walls. 

In the second scene, Petruchio, the hero of the play is 
introduced as just arrived from Verona, and knocking at 
the door of his friend Hortensio, which gives occasion 
to a wonderful punning on the phrase "knock me here." 
Petruchio, who had just succeeded to his father's fortune, 
has come to Padua to mend it, and being informed of 
the chance with rich Baptista's eldest but shrewish daugh- 
ter is more than ready to jump at it. How eager this 
noble gentleman and model hero is to marry on any 
terms so they but meet his avaricious greed is fairly 
intimated in these lines: 

" Be she as foul as was Florentius' love, 
As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrew' d 
As Socrates' Xantippe— or a worse 
She moves me not, or not removes, at least 
Affection's edge in me— were she as rough 
As are the swelling Adriatic seas ! 
I come to wive it wealthily in Padua ; 
If wealthily— then happily, in Padua." 



THE TAMING OF A SHREW. 



297 



This forcibly strikes the key-note of the play. We now 
readily apprehend thus early, that Shakespeare has as 
usual, a great moral lesson to enforce; that a woman 
who dare have a will of her own must be taught subjec- 
tion to the higher and noble powers; and in this case the 
hero Petruchio is the worthy instrument of its accom- 
plishment ! It is soon known to the suitors of Bianca 
that Petruchio has undertaken the task of capturing the 
Shrew, which will then leave an open field for the wooing 
of her more favored sister, and they joyfully engage to 
bear the expenses of his courtship. 

In the second act, the plot begins to develop. Petru- 
chio offers himself to old Baptista as a suitor for the 
Shrew. This is almost too good news to be true, and 
the square-dealing old Italian actually thinks it right to 
warn the suitor of the peculiar nature of his daughter, — 
unconscious of the fact that Petruchio is prepared to 
welcome fire and brimstone, if need be, to win the ducats 
of dowry that go with Katharine ! In the meantime, 
there has been some ingenious shuffling of parts among 
the personages of the drama. Lucentio has changed 
dress and character with his servant Tranio, and now 
appears as a candidate for the position of tutor of 
languages to Bianca, while Tranio as Lucentio comes on 
the scene as another promising suitor for this attractive 
lady. The nature of Shakespeare's representations of 
high-toned Italian noblemen is such that a servant has 
no trouble whatever in adapting himself at a moment's 
notice to the part, and performs it just as well as his 
master. As the countryman remarked the next day after 
seeing, for the first time, Othello performed — "wal, I 
swow, if they didn't have a darkey in that troupe — but I 
didn't see but he acted just as well as any of the rest of 
'em." 



2 9 8 



THE TAMING OF A SHREW. 



Our old friend Hortensio comes in disguised as Tricio, 
the fair Bianca's teacher of "music and mathematics." 

In the next act, these two gentlemen tutors make the 
most of their opportunities to woo the gentle Bianca, — 
in which competition, the noble Lucentio comes out 
"easily first." However, as the fair Bianca is little more 
than walking-lady in this great play, we pass her love 
affairs by, for the present, and turn again to those of her 
sister, who had previously given Hortensio a touch of her 
quality by whacking him over the head with the lute he 
had been instructing her upon. Then there was "a little 
rift within the lute," and an "interlude" not very full of 
harmony — until Petruchio commenced his wooing. It is 
not within our power to do justice to the gentle phraseol- 
ogy of this courtship, wherein such choice endearing terms 
as "ass," "jade," "buzzard," "turtle," "cocks-comb, " 
and "fool" are lovingly bandied back and forth, until, 
fairly conquered, or at least silenced at last by such 
delicate and convincing evidences of his ardent and true 
love, Katharine finally allows the wedding day to be 
named ! Whilst Katharine is wholly justified in after- 
ward describing to her father and the rest, Petruchio's 
treatment of her as that of an unmitigated liar and mad- 
cap ruffian — yet, inasmuch as Shakespeare makes her 
give a virtual assent to the proposed marriage with him — 
we infer, either that our author considered this a model 
of successful "sparking", or else his Katharine was far 
less of a shrew than her reputation gave her credit for, 
and she was really just crazy for a husband. In either 
case, it is our privilege to watch with unceasing admira- 
tion the development of this wonderful idealization of a 
woman's nature, as portrayed by that great Master, 
whose province it was to search out the inscrutable 



THE TAMING OF A SHREW. 



299 



mysteries of mind — especially of a woman's mind; and 
who is never so truly great as when most difficult to 
comprehend — for in such case how innumerable the 
springs of action suggested to us by the difficulty of appre- 
hending the proper and peculiar one. 

The wedding is set for the following Sunday. Petruchio 
goes off ostensibly to Venice "after rings and things and 
fine array." This affair now being in such fine trim, old 
Baptista is reminded that he had promised in such event 
to adjust matters between the suitors for his daughter 
Bianca. Their "case is set," and Gremio and Tranio 
"come into court," or, rather, to get a decision on their 
courting; when suddenly old Baptista — who, we take it, 
is Shakespeare's ideal of a doting father, especially so 
far as Bianca is concerned — announces that he will 
bestow his favorite daughter upon that suitor who will 
"do the best by her in the way of a marriage settlement." 
In other words, loving her with all the strength of his 
paternal soul, he will put her up at auction between them, 
and knock her down to the highest bidder ! The scene 
which ensues is somewhat like an auction, and something 
after the manner of a game of bluff, as it turns out. The 
ardent old Gremio puts up a house within the city, richly 
furnished with plate and gold, basins and ewers, Tyrian 
tapestries, costly apparel, (see inventory in the text,) 
ivory coffers, cypress chests, tents and canopies; ending 
up through an auctioneer's catalogue of household-stuff, 
with "pewter and brass," and all things belonging to 
house or housekeeping, besides one hundred milch-cows 
at his farm, six score fat oxen standing in the stall, and 
other farm produce ' ' too numerous to mention. " Lucky it 
was for old Signor Gremio that the city assessor of Padua 
wasn't by just then, or next year some accomodating 



300 



THE TAMING OF A SHREW 



Jew of Padua would have been carrying his tax certi- 
ficates for him at twenty-five per cent ! Then, up 
comes young Tranio, with much less "pewter," but a 
good deal more "brass," and — unabashed by the inven- 
tory of goods and chattels — is ready to bluff old Gremio 
with three or four houses in rich Pisa, each one better 
than his, besides 2,000 ducats by the year of fruitful land, 
for Bianca's jointure. Somewhat staggered by this, old 
Gremio brings up his reserves in the shape of "an argosy 
now lying in Marseilles road," — and thinks he has choked 
his young rival with the argosy. Again Iranio "comes 
up smiling," "sees him" and "goes him better" by three 
argosies, two galliasses, and twelve tight gallies ! Not 
owning a stiver in the world, this young scoundrel is ready 
to pledge an unlimited number of gallies, while in truth, 
instead of any of the gallies coming to him, there was far 
more probability of his being sent to the galleys ! Not 
satisfied even with this offer, he "caps the climax" with 
the "bold bluff" that he will double his rival's next offer 
whatever it may be. It was a case of "doubles and 
quits," for honest old Gremio sorrowfully confesses that 
having given all, there's no sense in promising more, and 
that his rival has won the game. 

Scene two, act three, opens on the appointed wedding 
day of Katharine the Shrew; the priest and friends 
assembled while the gay bridegroom has as yet failed to 
"put in an appearance." Already, for some unknown 
reason, Katharine has become as anxious now to be wed 
as she was formerly averse. If she scolds now, it is at 
the delay of the groom, and is about to depart weeping, 
when it is announced that Petruchio is coming, — but 
surely in such questionable guise as no woman of spirit 
would allow a suitor on their wedding day ! Tagged out 



THE TAMING OF A SHREW. 



301 



in rags, on a scurvy, bobtailed nag, with the rag, tag and 
bobtail of the city shouting at the heels of a steed that is 
caparisoned as outrageously as his master — he appears, 
at length, and claims his bride's attendance at the church 
for the ceremony. Although the friends remonstrate, the 
bride utters never a word of protest. Of his brutal 
conduct at the church, the like was never known at the 
wedding of any of the first society of Padua, — and indeed, 
would scarce be credited had not Shakespeare chronicled 
it! And still, "the poor craven" bride "said never a 
word." Beshrew me this is no shrew, or methinks if 
there ever were anything of the shrew about her she is 
sufficiently tamed, and it is unnecessary to prolong the 
ordeal ! So thought not the Master, or the play would 
have been finished in three acts, instead of the orthodox 
five. Only when required by her tyrant husband to start 
off immediately for his home, without partaking of her 
own bridal cheer, did she rebel; and reasonably so, for 
when she smelled the savory fumes of the wedding feast 
she had "no stomach for the journey," — but 'twas only 
for a moment, for, storming at her as "his property, his 
goods, his chattels, his horse, his ox, his ass, his any- 
thing," he compels her to leave her father's house, in the 
height of hunger and distress — on his spavined, knock- 
kneed old horse, and on an empty stomach ! 

At his country house, when they reach it, he continues 
this pleasant play of the bedlamite ruffian, the details of 
which proceedings, though of infinite humor, need not 
here be set down. Too thoroughly frightened and cowed 
to apply to the Probate Court for a jury to investigate 
his sanity, or to send to Padua for a lawyer and make 
application for a divorce, Katharine submits through two 
long acts of the play, to all his cruel and senseless 



302 



THE TAMING OF A SHRE W. 



vagaries ! For a time he suffers her neither to eat nor 
sleep, and this enforced condition of starvation and 
insomnia he considers the best joke of the season, terming 
it -'killing her with kindness." Compared with this 
mercenary and brutal wretch, " Peter the Pumpkin- 
Eater," who merely sequestered his wife for awhile, to 
cure her of gadding termagancy, by squeezing her into a 
pumpkin-shell with the chance of eating her way out — 
this old hero of Mother Goose was an uxorious husband, 
and a courteous, high-toned gentleman. 

The triumph of amiability is completed, — as well as 
the perfection of probability attained — when at last, on 
their way back to Padua for a visit to Old Baptista, 
Katharine acknowledges that two o'clock is seven, — that 
the sun is the moon, — that old man Vincentio is a blush- 
ing young virgin, and addresses him accordingly ! If 
complete asinine stultification be the highest wisdom in 
woman, — then was Petruchio's conquest of Katharine 
greater by far than the capture of a city ! The abject 
surrender of her will, her intellect, her conscience,. 
Katharine thus celebrates: 

1 The sun, it is not when you say it is not, 
And the moon changes even as your mind. 
What you will have it named, e'en that it is, 
And so it shall be for Katharine. " 

Confessing that to her bedazzled eyes, everything looks 
green, no wonder now that she is ready to swear that the 
moon is made of green cheese if he so list, — a state of 
mind most desirable in every well trained and disciplined 
wife of the Shakespearian model ! 

And lastly, — at a happy feast at old Baptista's house 
— when all the jarring elements of the family are well 
reconciled; when Lucentio, after some little tediousness 
of trouble, has won the lovely Bianca for his bride; when 



THE TAMING OF A KHRE W. 



303 



Hortensio has solaced his disappointment with a widow 
fair, fat, and forty, and flush of florins; while the laugh 
and jest go round, it is only blunt Katharine the Shrew 
that keeps within the bounds of womanly modesty, not to 
say, decency ! 

Then when the wives have left the table and room, a 
wager has sprung up between Petruchio, Lucentio and 
Hortensio, as to whose wife is kept under the best sub- 
jection — a bet to be decided in favor of him whose spouse 
shall most promptly return to the dining-hall upon a 
single summons from her husband. To the surprise of 
the others' husbands, Katharine is the only one to obey, 
and meekly, upon further order from her liege lord and 
master, she lectures the rest as to the proper duty of a 
wife. In all the ages of womanly debasement, never, 
perhaps, was the justified slavery of a sex put more com- 
pletely into words: 

" Thy husband is thy Lord— thy life, thy keeper; 
Thy head, thy sovereign. ****** 
Such duty as the subject owes the Prince, 
Even such a woman oweth to her husband. * * * 
I am ashamed that women are so simple 
To offer war where they should kneel for peace ; 
Or seek for rule, supremacy or sway, 
When they are bound to serve, love and obey ! * * 
Then vail your stomachs— for it is no boot ; 
And place your hands below your husband's foot ! 
In token of which duty, if he please 
My hand is ready, may it do him ease ! 

If the yoke of woman's bondage pressed heavily on her 
neck for centuries after; if the day of her emancipation, 
the recognition of her god-given equality of rights, was 
long in dawning, — retarded by the thousand influences of 
tradition in laws and in literature, — good reason has she 
not to bless the name of William Shakespeare ! 



THE EMIGRANT OF 'FIFTY-NINE. 



Far out upon the Western Plains, — 

In suit of "butternut" and "jeans," 

A man did weary journey wend, 

With wagon built at old South Bend, 

Containing "grub" and mining tools, 

Drawn by two melancholy mules; 

And a "yaller dog" did lazily lag on 

— No wag in his tail, — at the tail of the wagon. 

Unknown my hero's race and name, 
I scarcely know from whence he came; 
He favored "Posey," — but more like 
He was the flower — and pride — of "Pike." 

"What sought he thus afar?" — you say — 
* l Bright jewels of the mine?" — well, yea! 

He was, as you perchance divine, 

The "Emigrant of 'Fifty-Nine. " 

Where Rocky Mountains' streamlets rolled 
To sandy Plains their sands of gold, 
His mind was fixed his course to strike 
Toward his namesake Peak of Pike. 

304 



THE EM I U RANT OF 'FIFTY-NINE. 305 

As he through Kansas towns had passed, 
They plied him questions thick and fast, 
'Till bothered, flouted, jeered and jibed, 
He had his "motto" plain inscribed 
In letters black, which sprawled all over 
His dirty-yellow wagon cover. 

What was his motto, do you think? — 
'Twas not, "Be merry, eat and drink," — 
Not, "Labor omnia vincit," — nor 
The Alpine boy's " Excelsior ! " — 
Not, "On to glory's highest star," 
*'Ad astra per aspera; " — 
Nor dollar's scroll, — "In God we trust: " — 
'Twas simply this: — "Pike's Peak, or Bust!" 
****** * 

Along the bottoms, rich and raw, 
That lined the lonely Arkan-saw, — 
And by the sand-hills, one by one, 
He traveled on — he traveled on ! 

Ever along his weary way 
He saw the prairie-dogs at play; — 
In countless throngs that come and go 
From plains to water-gullies low, 
He saw the black-browed buffalo: — 

Faint shadows on th' horizon dim, 
Fleet antelope did sink — and swim, 
And fade into "the dying day," — 
While o'er the Plains — "and far away" 
21 



306 THE EMIGRANT OF 'FIFTY-NINE. 

And ever toward the setting sun, 
He traveled on— he traveled on: — 
And to the purple mountain's rim, 
That "yaller-dog" — it followed him ! 

s|: * * * * * 

At length he came where shadows cool 
Drape thy clear stream, Fontaine qui Bouille 
Where porphyritic columns odd 
Strange semblance take of heathen god: 
Where ice-cold fountains seethe and boil, 
He rested from his journey's toil; — 
And wasted vigor would recruit 
With bubbling draughts from "Iron Ute." 

Hail "Iron Ute" — Hygeia's shrine! 
No fount in all the world like thine ! 
Old Hudibras should be revised, 
In light of science modernized, 
And — tribute to thy glorious spring 
Ferruginous — we grateful sing: — 
"What healthy blessings now environ 
The man that gulpeth down cold iron ! " 

Our Pike went round from spring to spring,. 

And found delight in everything: 

With " Sody-Springs" that foam and fizz 

He made "the peartest" biscuit "riz," — 

Not clammy like his usual prog, — 

No longer "yaller" as his dog. 

:jc * ^c ^ ■%. •%. $z 



THE EMIGRANT OF 'FIFTY-NINE. 

Again he toiled, a'most a week, 
And gained the summit of Pike's Peak. 
Who shall describe that glorious view? 
Not I, — you'll have to climb there too ! 

Northward, he sees the ranges roll 
Their snowy crests toward frozen Pole; — - 
AVestward and south, in grandeur wild, 
Rise mountains back of mountains piled ! 

With summits capped by wintry snows, 
Their ranges verdant Parks enclose, 
While splintered peaks jut high in air: — 
On this side — mountains everywhere ! 

■sfc # # -& % 3fc 

I nknown and cold such Future lies: — 
Backward he gladly turns his eyes, 
And seeks to measure once again 
Two hundred miles of level Plain. 

What prospect doth he first descry? 
What level meets his homesick eye? 
Of all the plain his track had cross'd 
Just that which had been longest lost ! 



The farthest off in vision's scope 

Which sinks not 'neath th' round world's slope ! 

Below him spread unnoted, vast, 

The weary wastes he since had passed, — 



307 



308 THE EMIGRANT OF 'FIFTY-NINE. 

But in th' horizon's pearl-gray sea, 
The waves of earth's convexity 
As billows rolling mountain high, 
Dash upward 'gainst the eastern sky ! 
****** 

It is not only in our dreams 

The farthest off the nearest seems; 

'Tis ever Youth's horizon lies 

The nearest to our fading eyes, 

And brighter far its distant scene 

Than all Life's Plains that lie between ! 



ON GLACIER POINT, YOSEMITE. 



Out from a forest dark with lofty pines 

and cedars straight and tall, 

We rode into the open sunlight, 

and trod Yosemite's wall. 

Of the world that then broke on our vision, 

so wonderful and new; — 
Of that surging chaos of granite 

that pierced the ether blue; — 
Of its pinnacles, domes, and towers, 

in such mad proportions given, 
They seem "to play fantastic tricks 

in the very face of heaven," — 
Of Merced and Yosemite, 

twin children of the skies 
That catch the rain-drops at their source 

— the clouds in which they rise, 
Then slip and glide o'er polished ways, 

— then shoot adown the walls, 
At single leap ten times the depth 

of famed Niagara Falls: — 
Of El Capitan, and Brothers Three, 

Cathedral, Sentinel; 
The Lake that gives all back again; 

— it is not mine to tell; — 
But that I stood on Glacier Point, 

and what to me befel ! 

309 



310 ON GLACIER POINT, YOSEMITE. 

The Point — a level granite cliff 

projecting o'er th' abyss: — 

On hands and knees I ventured out 

and peer'd o'er edge of this: 
On to the far horizon's verge — 

peaks piled with wintry snow ! 
Beneath me a verdurous valley 

— four thousand feet below ! 
Four thousand feet as th' plummet drops, 

four thousand feet down straight; 
A perfect garden of Eden below; 

— and this the open gate ! 

And as I gazed and gazed, 

a fascination grew; 
I longed for that green valley— 

' it seemed so easy, too ! 
Long hours of toil to climb so high, 

— a minute would take me down ! 
No thought of a battered body, — 

no thought of a broken crown; 
Sam Patch had no such immortal chance 

when he jump'd at Roch'ster town ! 
From foot to head, in reason's spite, 

th' electric impulse thrill'd me 
To spin me down that dizzy height 

though sure as fate it killed me ! 



i & j 



I didn't do it ! I got off that rock, 

— I daredn't stay any longer: — 
Do I falsify? — you go and try — 

and see if your nerves are stronger ! 



THE DOUBLE BLESSING. 



(An incident in the early history of the "OKI and New " Club.) 

Chemist Prof. Patrick — may he ne'er grow less 
But rather double into blessedness, — 
Discoursed the Club, one night, a learned thesis 
On Bastiat's hobby of Biogenesis; 
And fairly proved, to all within the room, 
That wondrous life from turnip-tops may bloom. 

Discussion o'er, we sought our usual haunt, 

To sup with him at Johnson's restaurant. 

Now why, when "Old" and "New" alike had gone, 

Prof. Patrick lingered in the rear, alone, 

We never knew, but if I guess aright, 

To close the club-room, and put out the light. 

How sad it is — as we so often find — 
That out of sight's the same as out of mind ! 
How strange it was that just as soon as ever 
We saw that feast we clean forgot its giver ! 

That feast appointed for the stroke of ten: — 
Minutes are hours, sometimes to hungry men ! 
Short grace was said, and then, oh, grievous sin ! 
Dwight gave the signal, and we all "pitched in ! " 



311 



312 



THE DOUBLE BLESSING. 



But when the host appeared at last, tho' late. — 
Each guest sat silent — and looked on his plate, 
And fain to cover up his fault of breeding, 
Tried hard to make believe he'd not been feeding ! 

Exceeding peace had made Prof. Patrick bold, — 
He kindly glanced around the "New" and "Old," 
And clearly spake, as was his proper task, 
" Prof. Robinson, will you the blessing ask ! " 

Quoth Dwight, — "Professor Patrick! nay, not so! 
The blessing's asked a good long while ago." — 
Again spake Patrick, — but he spake more low, 
Yet cheerily still, — and said: "I pray you then 
Since I, though host, have been forestalled by ten, 
Set me clown one who will my duty do 
Upon the food already blessed by you: — 
For sure the poet sang, long ere to-night, 
That blessings brighten as they take their flight ! " 

Then did Dwight yield, and Robinson subside; — 
While down the line, as by the waiters plied, 
Some answered "raw," and others some said "fried:" 
But two, in spite of Patrick's courteous healing, 
Thought "stewed " alone expressed their proper feeling ! 

But all that feast, the truth stood fair confessed, 
Gracious or graceless, — blessed or unblessed, — 
Each man undoubted did "his level best," — 
But lo ! Prof. Patrick's plate led all the rest ! 












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